A barrage of dainty words like “Bless her heart!” and “Y’all.”
greeted me as I approached the entrance to the ball.
As I turned this and that way to fit me through the door,
it was then that I regretted the hoop skirt that I wore.
Finally giving it a yank and then one great yank more,
I fear I heard a ripping sound as something in there tore.
I grabbed a small mint julep from the tray that passed me by,
but waved away the country ham, eschewed the pecan pie,
for the merry widow that I was squeezed into
already had me short of breath and slowly turning blue.
A few spins around the dance floor with something in my shoe,
convinced me that my southern ball experience was through.
We exited the ballroom, motored out of the plantation,
and in the backseat I surrendered to severe temptation.
Like those giant pythons that shed their skins in zoos,
I peeled off my merry widow and my ball gown and my shoes.
My hoop skirt parachuting out the window brought a smile
as I disposed of finery mile after mile.
As we drew up to the levee and approached the shrimping docks,
I drew on my old Levis and a t-shirt and my Crocs.
By then my southern gentlemen was through with me, I fear.
He was driving rather fast and grinding every gear.
So it won’t be any news to you that our romance was through.
“Southern” is just something that this northern girl can’t do.
Prompt words used in this post were news, dainty and barrage. Photo is stock footage from “Gone with the Wind.”