Ihr liewe Leit:
Der anner Daag waar en Mich im Haus! Ya, gewiss, en groosi Mick, Un
die gans Haushalding iss ihr hinnernoch wie die Wilde, un hen ken Ruh ghatt
bis die Mick im Mickehimmel waar.
Graad ee Mick!
Wisst ihr eldere Leser noch wie mer noch glee waare un hen en
hunnert Fliege im Haus ghatt? Mer hen en Mickedier, awwer gewehnlich kee
Mickefendschdre, ghatt. "Mach die Dier zu!" hen unsre Eldre grische, "denkscht
mer wuhne in re Schier?"
Nadierlich hen mer en Mickeweddel odder zwee ghatt, un mer hen als
Mickebabier kaaft,
awwer so alles hot net viel gebatt. Der Ralph S. Funk (1889-1969) kann uns
devun verzeehle:
Micke
Vun all dem Ungeziffer wiesscht
Wu rum iss in der Welt,
Die Micke sin zu mir es schlimmscht,
Vun Friehyaahr bis die Kelt.
Was badde Micke ennihau?
Duhn eem yuscht driwweliere;
Sie graddle yuscht in allem rum
Fer eem Geduld browiere.
Nau schlaag sie wann sie uff dich setzt,
Noh dreffscht dich selwer schtatts;
Un machscht du endlich eeni dot,
Gabt's sexe in ihr Blatz.
Sie fliege in die Ohr un Naas,
Die Aage un ins Maul;
Laafe iwwer dei Blottkopp naus,
Muscht wehre wie en Gaul.
Sie falle in die Riwwelsupp,
Ins Sauergraut un Schpeck;
Vun eeniches vum Esse rum,
Do bleiwe sie net weck.
Nau finnt en Mann en Mick im Bier,
Er schmeisst sie raus un lacht;
Sie hot, iss sie verseeft im Schaum,
Seim Dascht nix ausgemacht.
Loss awwer'n Mick im Kaffi sei,
Noh gebt's en grossi Zucht;
Es iss en "caution"' hol's die Grenk,
Wie er die Mick verflucht.
Die Micke Gschicht iss mir en Greiz,
Bin froh wann's iss verbei;
Was batt's - 's iss yuscht en katzi Weil
Bis Zeit sie rum zu sei.
Macht's gut,
Der Alt Professer
|
Dear people:
The other day a fly was in the house! Yes, no kidding, a big fly.
And the whole family (household) went after it like a bunch of wild men,
and weren't satisfied till the fly was in fly heaven.
Just one fly!
Do you older readers still remember when we were still small and
had a hundred flies in the house? We a had a screen door, but usually no
window screens. "Close the door!" our parents yelled, "do you think we
live in a barn?"
Of course we had a flyswatter or two, and we used to buy flypaper,
but all of that didn't do much good. Ralph S. Funk (1889-1969) can tell us
about that:
Flies
Of all the ugly vermin
That's around in this world,
The flies are to me the worst,
From spring until it's cold.
What good are flies anyhow?
They just torment you;
They crawl around on everything
To try one's patience.
No hit it when it sits on you,
Then you hit yourself instead;
And when you finally kill one,
There are six in its place.
They fly into your ears and nose,
Your eyes and your mouth;
They walk across your bald head,
You have to protect yourself like a horse.
They fall into the "rivvel" soup,
Into the Sauerkraut and bacon;
From anything that's edible
They never stay away.
Now, a man finds a fly in his beer,
He throws it (fly) out and laughs;
It didn't, if it drowned in the foam,
Do a thing to his thirst.
But let the fly be in his coffee,
Then there's a big to-do;
It is a "caution," the deuce take it,
How he curses the fly.
Flies are for me a pain in the neck,
I'll be glad when they're all gone;
What's the use - it's only a short time
Until their time is up.
Take care,
The Old Professor |
