From The Nutmeg State

As I beat down life’s foamy track,

And strike a snag on every tack,

I sometimes steer in ‘neath a hill

And rest upon the calm and still.

And, letting go my big mud hook,

I steal ashore to take a look,

Where, finding shipmates all along,

We spin a yarn and sing a song.

Then some old salt cries “where yer frum?

Which way yer goin’ an’ how yer come?”

So up and down I proudly strut

And say I’m from Connecticut.

And then they all chime in “fus’ rate,

He’s frum the wooden nutmeg State,”

And look me over just as tho’

I was the one who, years ago,

Turned out about three barrels full

And sent across to Johnny Bull.

And thus it is where’er I go,

To lands of sun or lands of snow;

They treat me like a lord until

 rise and say with right good will:

“Shipmates, I s’pose you’ll shun me, but

I’m from good old Connecticut.”

And then with eyes cold and unjust

They look upon me with distrust;

While everyone both small and great,

Yell out: “He’s frum the Nutmeg State!”

But I will praise her to the last,

And spike her name high on my mast,

And sink the craft that tries to butt

Against my old Connecticut.

But one thing daily troubles me,

It’s when we cross life’s troubled sea;

Will we join in the last great fleet

And anchor round the Mercy Seat?

Or will they stop us at the gate,

Because we’re from the Nutmeg State?

May 8, ‘91

Pub. in the

Hartford Post