Mrs. Patterson Wrote to the Vicar

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Sisukiro: In the sitting room at four o'clock,
Mrs. Elizabeth Patterson, age fifty-eight,
picks up her black fountain pen,
the Montblanc knockoff from Harrods, 1992.
The ink is Parker Quink, black as the Pacific deep.
She addresses the envelope: To the Vicar,
Anglican Diocese, Lambeth Palace, London SE1 7JU.

[Chorus]
Bouba: The letter sits.
On the chipped mahogany desk,
under the faded floral curtains.
Royal Mail stamp, red as a warning,
unfranked, untouched.
Point Nemo, 48 degrees 52.6 minutes south,
123 degrees 23.6 minutes west.
No postman comes.
The letter sits.

[Verse 2]
Sisukiro: She writes in neat cursive,
complaining of words like masticate and uvula,
scandalous vocabulary from the twins' mouths.
The room smells of lavender sachets and damp wool,
fourteen degrees Celsius, a draft from the window frame.
Her Earl Grey tea cools in the porcelain cup,
bergamot faint, biscuit uneaten on the saucer.

[Bridge]
Bouba: Up above, astronauts orbit at four hundred kilometers,
closer than any land.
The International Space Station hums by,
but down here, the letter gathers dust.
Mrs. Patterson caps the pen with a sigh,
seals the envelope with monk-blessed wax from Pemba.
No boat arrives. No mail leaves.

[Verse 3]
Sisukiro: She places it on the windowsill,
next to the brass inkstand, tarnished from salt air.
The complaint: 'Unfit for decent company,'
demands correction, guidance from afar.
But the ocean stretches empty,
spacecraft graveyard silent below.

[Chorus]
Bouba: The letter sits.
Ink drying on thick paper,
sharp metallic scent lingering.
Cold forearms on the sticky desk,
shawl thin against the chill.
Point Nemo holds it,
futile as a prayer to the waves.
The letter sits.

[Outro]
Sisukiro: And so it remains,
unsent, unread,
in the loneliest place on Earth.