North by Northeast
O, come to New Hampshire, my dear Cary Grant,
And pack your tuxedo designed to enchant.
We’ll dance down the aisle at the grocery store,
Buy oysters and caviar, champagne and more,
You’ll laugh and turn backflips, winning my heart;
You’ll swing us around on the grocery cart.
You’ll bow to the bag boy, tipping your hat,
Nod at the checkout girl, fix your cravat.
The limo will come, and we’ll be on our way,
“And where are we going?” you’ll smile and say.
But that is the rub, now where do we go?
To the farm, where “yar” is a yard that you’ll mow?
How are you, Cary, with chickens and chores?
I know you do rooftops, but do you do floors?
You’re the talk of the town in your glamorous scenes,
Will you trade your tuxedo for flannels and jeans?
What about wood stoves and maples to tap,
Sump pumps and snow plows and boiling the sap?
I can’t be the one who gets dirt on that sheen.
Debonair Cary, go back to your screen,
Your taxis and mansions, your princesses true.
You’re sweet but New Hampshire is no place for you.