Unless of course you believe it was warped all along. 😀
Before I begin, allow me to give you a little background to how I have come to the realisation that my humour has warped beyond repair:
I love garage sales. I have found some wonderful things at them. Thankfully, I don’t attend too many as the wallet cannot stand it. However when I do go, I almost certainly come home with treasures unimaginable (well the Garden Gnome finds it hard to imagine what I see in some things). So, several months ago there was a deceased estate garage sale advertised around the corner from my home.
It was due to begin at 7am but when I arrived just before that time, the cars were parked down the road and people had already come in and had piles of things put away for purchase. One person had backed their car up the driveway and filled it to the roof already with furniture and bric-a-brac. To say I was disappointed as I watched a chair that I would most definitely have purchased being packed into this car was a bit of an understatement.
However, undaunted I soldiered on where I found in a corner a pile of old books. Most of the other attendees looked at the dusty and well-worn covers and passed them over however I picked up each book and thumbed through it choosing to purchase two old school text books. One was a reading primer and the other a poetry book. The copy I held in my hand was from 1965 and filled with handwritten notes from the student who had studied the old English poems contained within its pages, written in the margins.
When I got them home, I placed the books on a shelf in my craft room and haven’t paid them much mind since that time but over the past couple of days it has been like the poetry book has been calling out to me “Pick me up. Open me.”
This morning I succumbed and as I thumbed through it and read snippets of poetry here and there I was transported back to a time of speech that is vastly different to that of today.
Flicking to the contents page I found a poem entitled “Come, Come Away”. This sounded like a poem I might enjoy so I opened to page 22 and read:
“Come, come away, to the tavern I say,
For now at home ’tis washing day;
Leave your prittle-prattle, and fill us a pottle,
You are not so wise as Aristotle.
Drawer come away, let’s make it a holy day:
Anon, anon, anon, Sir, what is’t you say?”
And here is where I find my humour has warped…. I’ve lost the plot. For I translated this poem in my head to modern Australian
“Hey mate! Wanna go down to the pub?
The missus is doing housework
and I’m over her bitchin’ and moanin’
Let’s grab a pot
and talk some sh**
Thank goodness for housework days right?”
What do you think? Have I nailed it’s interpretation?
Well, it’s better to start the day with a smile than nothing at all right?
I am now going to take this book and read a little further and whilst I do so, here is another Christmas song for you. This is one that I sang as part of a choir at some time in my life.
Have a great Friday everyone!