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~ By Courtesy of Others ~

D-R-Y-H-T-E-N

Our little Hearth is four months old and quite a little kin
But we spell out the words we don't know how to pronounce right
Like T-Y-R or maybe S-E-I-D-R-M-A-N
But the words we're stumbling over now
Tear the tongue right out of me.

Our D-R-Y-H-T-E-N becomes Gothi today,
Our sweet little E-L-F will be goin' away
He thinks we're mad, and it will be pure H-E-single-L for me
Oh, I wish that I could stop this D-R-Y-H-T-E-N.

Watch them smile, they think it's Heathen
To have a High Priest
And they think P-E-N-N-I-C-K is right at least.
I point out all the half-ass tripe
They all spout, but no one hears
Still I can't say the way this hurts
That's drippin' in my ears.

Our D-R-Y-H-T-E-N becomes Gothi today,
Our sweet little E-L-F will be goin' away
He thinks we're mad, and it will be pure H-E-single-L for me
Oh, I wish that I could stop this D-R-Y-H-T-E-N.

© Robin Herne 2004

Robin Herne on FaceBook   *  
Ipswich Pagan Council

Author´s Notes:
A naff ditty inspired by a strange conversation. Best to sing in a nasal
pseudo-American Mid-West whine, preferably after a few meads. Feel free to change the words to suit other traditions (the tune is a Tammy Wynette one, DIVORCE.)

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