Anglo Saxon, you rampaging Viking hunk with blue eyes,
muchas gracias for your 500 words we use every day—boy
and girl, cow and pancake, all the curse words, and skunk,
monk, lunk, funk, because English, you had some funky
beginnings—while the rest of the world was using alphabets
you used runes, and your first sentence wasn’t written
until 450 AD—This she-wolf is a reward to my kinsman,
which means what? The coin, a dog, or a sharp-
tongued woman? Who knows, English, but you grew fast,
put on weight, opened for business, and set up your
Bully pulpit of mercantile lingo—derivatives, assets, revenues,
liens, debt consolidation, cash flow, collateral,
break-even point, only no one does, just big daddy Mr. Moneybags,
Scrooge McDuck, the Bezos-a-rama, ka-ching, that forgets
the little languages that fed into the mighty Mississippi, like
Celtic, a banshee screaming in the bog, the clabbered milk,hooligan smashing the night to smithereens, after hoursin the pub drinking whiskey, the
