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I have long believed that true history can be found in oral traditions, fairy tales, songs.....limerick. I happened through London recently and took a detour through the East End. I popped in a pub or two. Struck up a conversation here, had a debate there. All in all, a wonderful time. Finally, as night fell, I called it a night. I staggered out into the evening, much the worse for drink. I spotted two young lads playing in the street. Carefree boys. Dirty clothes. Dirty faces. I was about to ask for directions and toss them some change when I heard them reciting a poem that sent chills up my spine and brought tears of fright into my drunken eyes. I asked them where they'd heard it. They said that it had been recited 'round those parts for more than a century. They said they didn't know what it meant, and asked me if it made sense to me. I stood there, in silence, afraid to speak, realizing the answer had been there, in front of everyone, for all these years. The boys made their way down the street. I stood alone. Silent. As they disappeared from view, I heard their ancient limerick echo in the distance....
"There once was a man called Lechmere,
who made his way to work 'round here.
Polly needed her doss,
she met Mr. Cross,
who cut her from her ear to her ear."
True story.......or not.
"There once was a man called Lechmere,
who made his way to work 'round here.
Polly needed her doss,
she met Mr. Cross,
who cut her from her ear to her ear."
True story.......or not.
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