The Mermaid of Zennor

*Contains language which may offend.*

 

Part I

 

Here is Mathey Trewella,

My beloved husband to- be.

He’s the finest singer in Zennor,

And the best thing of all?

He loves me.

 

He visits my Dama on Sundays,

And he pray for the souls of his sheep

Before he herds them down to the butchers,

My darling husband to-be.

 

I met him in the market.

Called me the prettiest girl he’d seen,

Though I had scales down my clothes

And a crust of salt on my nose,

I felt sure he saw only me.

 

Mathey Trewella is a good Christian boy…

He never misses church…

He never misses church…

He never misses church…

 

Part II

 

That BITCH!

That slipper-flipper-haddock-faced-fiend, she doesn’t know what she’s taken from me, if there’s one thing they don’t teach in SEA SCHOOL, it’s never, never, never make a fool of a fish wife, grasp it now, take the knife, time to fillet and gut, oh God forgive me, I know full-fucking-well what I do, but I JUST DON’T CARE, fingers in her hair, and a razor shell to her neck, oil from a tanker spilling black, or perhaps she’s squirting octopus ink, flopping on the rocks and gill- gasping for,

“Water, water, throw me back!”

But no such luck, the sun drags red and smears her soul (if she has one- devil!) across the sky and down into the depths, and I am left, fish scales on my clothes and a crust of salt on my nose, and so I stick my legs in the sea, and scrub at them, picking the scales off, trying to pick the scales off, ripping the scales off, pulling at my skin as the scales dig in, in, in, becoming my skin, scales are my skin, and my lungs are getting thinner, thinner, and the air is too

thick,

too

ripe,

too

sweet

so I do what feels right, and I roll off the rock, into the sea and breathe.

 

Part III

We find the fish wife.

Not many clothes on her.

Because the sea likes a maiden.

And we know she was a maiden.

Saved herself for Mathey Trewella,

Who had turned up late for church the Sunday she died,

Saying he’d overslept.

 

 

 

 

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