Mrs. Patterson Sent the Dictionary Back

Lyrics

The Cormorant coughed diesel at the pier.
The only horn we hear maybe twice a year.
A single crate addressed to the school.
October, 1952.

The book was heavy. Bound in dark blue skin.
The paper was so thin, the words were crowded in.
From A to Z. Pemba said it was the law.
Every single word that anyone ever saw.

She took it to her sitting room, the one with lace.
A chill was in that place.
She opened it at random.
Page one-thousand-one-hundred-and-three.
And set down her tea.

And she sent the dictionary back.
Wrapped in the same brown paper, tied with the same black tack.
With a note she wrote in a careful hand,
that no one on this island was meant to understand.
And a stamp in red ink, just the two words.
NOT SUITABLE.
Absurd.

She didn't tear the pages out, she wasn't that kind.
Just drew the blind.
Left the biscuit on the plate.
Her fountain pen made scratches. A list of grievances.
For all the world's offenses.

I saw it on the counter at the post.
A big and lonely ghost.
Waiting for the tide.
The letter was attached with sealing wax.
To state the simple facts.

And she sent the dictionary back.
Wrapped in the same brown paper, tied with the same black tack.
With a note she wrote in a careful hand,
that no one on this island was meant to understand.
And a stamp in red ink, just the two words.
NOT SUITABLE.
Absurd.

The Cormorant took the parcel and the blame.
And then in April, back it came.
The string was frayed, the paper torn.
A little more forlorn.
Her letter was still there, tucked in the twine.
The seal was still fine.
No one had read her note.
It just came back.
On the mail-boat.

It sits behind the counter to this day.
A monument to words she wouldn't say.
A lexicon of everything we are.
Beneath a single, dusty star.
I wonder if she didn't like 'fartlek'?
Or 'bunghole'?
The Cormorant returns when it returns.
The lesson no one learns.