The Word the Stranger Used (Hornswoggle)

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Aye, listen here, ye lot in this dusty parlor,
Low oak beams pressin' down like Samuel Johnson's dictionary from 1755,
That chipped ceramic mug on the mantle, holdin' secrets of ale and folly.
I'm Cousin Hornswoggle, from Whitby's salty coast,
Can't be hornswoggled, no sir, not me.
I've got me worn leather pouch, stakes for quoits,
Iron rings, two pounds each, rust-edged from the sea air.
That stranger waltzed in, eyes like a fox in the Yorkshire Gazette of 1863,
Challenged me to a toss on the green, three pounds on the line.

[Chorus]
Hornswoggle? Ha! Not this lad.
I've bamboozled better than Bartlett's Americanisms in 1848.
Toss the ring, clink on the hob,
Three pounds safe in me pouch.
Can't hornswoggle Hornswoggle, I insist!

[Verse 2]
Autumn evening, 4:30 PM, light fadin' like coal smoke,
Tang of ale-soaked floorboards, damp wool coats by the hearth.
Temperature droppin' to 48 degrees, we huddle near the fire.
He throws first, iron arcs through the mist,
Clink! Right on the hob, that sly dog.
Me turn, arm swings like Johnson's quill,
But the ring skitters wide, into the trampled grass.
Again and again, me stakes slippin' away.
Lost three pounds, paper hat on me head: 'Hornswoggled Fool.'

[Bridge]
That tarnished brass tankard mocks me now,
Half-eaten meat pie, crust hard as me pride.
The innkeeper's wife, unnamed in the ledgers,
Pours another, her eyes sayin' what words won't.
Strange fact of the taverns, that ritual hat,
Worn by fools like me, insistin' too loud.

[Chorus]
Hornswoggle? Aye, got me good.
Bamboozled like a lad in the folklore,
Toss the ring, miss the hob,
Three pounds gone from me pouch.
Hornswoggled Hornswoggle, who knew?

[Outro]
So raise yer tankard, ye unnamed lads and wives,
To the word the stranger used, and the fool who fell.
Can't be hornswoggled? Ha, tell that to the quoits.