I be awerkin' at fixin' dinner, <br />and my man, he be awerkin' in the fields, <br />and well, I just startin' inta dreamin' <br />'bout me a-dancin' in Paris. <br /> <br />I be wearin' sparkly shoes with high, skinny <br />heels, and one o' them slinky gowns. I'm a-drinkin' <br />that bubbly stuff outin' a one-legged glass. <br />Lotsa good-lookin' men be astin' me ta dance. <br /> <br />Then my man comes home, clumpin' in muddy <br />boots, his shirt and pants dirty and dusty. <br />He be a mess! Ceptin' his eyes-they be warm <br />'n brown like new-plowed fields, and his voice <br />be like a river a-flowin', so deep and smooth. <br />'Dinner ready yet, sugar bun? ' <br /> <br />His hand touches my hair right gentle- <br />like the breeze of a summer night a-mussin' <br />the leaves o' the willer tree. 'Long about then, <br />my heart feels like velvet cushins be a-pressin' <br />agin' it. Well, I startin' inta thinkin'... <br />who wants ta be dancin' in Paris anyhow?<br /><br />Mary Naylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dancin-in-paris/
