@edgarblythe,
Welcome back, Mark. Didn't know Eighteen Yellow Roses by Bobby.
Here's our poem for today.
Two ‘Mericana Men
Beeg Irish cop dat walk hees beat
By den peanutta stan’,
First two, t’ree week w’en we are meet
Ees call me "Dagoman."
An’ w’en he see how mad I gat,
Wheech eesa pleass heem, too,
Wan day he say: "W’at’s matter dat,
Ain’t ‘Dago’ name for you?
Dat’s ‘Mericana name, you know,
For man from Eetaly;
Eet ees no harm for call you so,
Den why be mad weeth me?"
First time he talka deesa way
I am too mad for speak,
But nexta time I justa say:
"All righta Meester Meeck I"
O! my, I nevva hear bayfore
Sooch langwadge like he say;
An’ he don’t look at me no more
For mebbe two, t’ree day.
But pretta soon agen I see
Den beeg poleecaman
Dat com’ an’ growl an’ say to me;
"Halo, Eyetalian! Now, mebbe so you gon’ deny
Dat dat’sa name for you."
I smila back an’ mak’ reply:
"No, Irish, dat’sa true."
"Ha! Joe," be cry, "you theenk dat we
Should call you ‘Merican ?"
"Dat’s gooda ‘nough," I say, "for me,
Eef dat’s w’at you are, Dan."
So now all times we speaka so
Like gooda ‘Merican:
He say to me, "Good morna, Joe,"
I say, "Good morn, Dan."
