“Don’t know much about history…”
– Sam Cooke
Never much cared for that brooding recluse Emily Dickinson,
Never met anyone quite as wacked as Lizzie Borden.
Never took a shine to period costumes or, for that matter, cosplay,
Nor did I put much stock in all that dramatic melancholy.
Wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoop skirt or a corset,
Same could be said of colored ribbons or calico bonnets.
Never cared a lick ’bout pocket watch-carrying goth steampunk orphans,
Or roaming gangs of vagrants armed to the teeth with sad irons.
Never gave thought to broken fevers, fairy tales or giants,
Always got spooked staring at the eyes in mourning portraits.
Carefully steered clear of shirtwaist factories and utopian communities,
Scared out of my boots by silhouettes and freakish human oddities.
Never cottoned to cellos or stitched my name upon a quilt,
Got jitters the day I flipped through the pages of Wisconsin Death Trip.
Smallpox, curios and Mary Todd Lincoln encased forever in glass,
Know much better than to take a date to a Shaker dance.
Don’t give a darn ’bout needlework or all those vintage samplers,
Nor about the woman hiding inside that creepy yellow wallpaper.
Sweatshops, hysteria and that awful Year Without a Summer,
Fought hard as nails not to let the failed crops pull us under.
Porcelain dolls, fainting couches and other historical pablum,
But damned if I don’t love EVERYTHING on this seductive album.