Owed to English, Lexicon of Lunacy

Preface

English is a mutt.

She's a language that has been borrowed, stolen, and redefined so many times that it's hard to tell where it came from. She's a patchwork quilt of cultures, histories, and sounds. She's a linguistic dumpster fire that somehow still manages to be beautiful. Part Germanic growl, part Latin lace, with a touch of French flirtation, Viking vigor, and pure phonetic betrayal. She is the only language that can make "colonel" sound like "kernel" spell "knife" with a K that dies quietly, and turn a "lead" into "led" while leading no one anywhere.
This ballad was born out of frustration, confusion, mockery, and mild spelling-induced trauma. It is a rant in rhyme. A lament in lyric. A love-hate letter to the only language where you can be misled by "lead."

If you've ever tried to explain why "read" and "read" mean entirely different things depending on how sad you sound—that's who this poem is for.

Welcome aboard the syntax spiral.
Please stow your logic in the overhead bin.

Owed to English, Lexicon of Lunacy

In England's green and foggy clime,
A boy once dared to question time:
"Is 'two' the one that ticks the clock,
Or 'too' like 'also'—I'm in shock."

She said, "My dear, we spell by fate.
A rule exists—until too late.
A knight may know the gnat draws near,
Yet neither K nor G you'll hear!"

Some letters hide, some play pretend—
Like “knife” and “gnat” and “psalm” and “friend.”
You spell out “aisle” then walk right through—
This language lies... but sounds like truth.

[Chorus - strong, rhythmic cadence]
Oh English, thou unruly beast,
Where chaos reigns and rules have ceased.
You spell with flair, pronounce with doubt—
What's in is in, what's out stays out.

He pondered "goose" and pondered "geese,"
Then asked aloud, "Why not some meese?"
For "tooth" and "teeth" and "foot" and "feet"—
Why moose and mice don't ever meet?

The past of "run" is simply "ran,"
But is it "span" or "spun," old man?
You "sink" today but "sank" last week—
Unless you're sunk in logic's leak.

[Chorus - Sarcastic / Smirk]
Oh English, thou eccentric fog,
A barking sound, a spelling slog.
You twist, you turn, you loop, you lurch—
You light the match, then leave the church.

He met an ox, then oxen two,
But boxes came from box (it's true!).
A house becomes a bunch of "homes,"
Yet mouse gives mice, not plural "momes"!

With Latin roots, the path is straight—
Amicus, aqua, conjugate.
But English? She's a klepto-mage,
Who pickpockets your mother tongue mid-page.

We steal from French, from Dutch, from Norse—
Then twist their meanings, make them worse.
A "gift" once killed, a "chef" once led—
Now both just feed or bake your bread.

[Chorus - Theatrical]
Oh English, rogue of stolen skin,
You wear the world, then twist the grin.
A patchwork quilt of word and whim—
Each syllable a prank in hymn.

We hang the art, but men are hanged.
A dream is dreamt—or maybe dreamed.
You leap, you leapt... or maybe leaped—
The rules are set, then rearranged.

Yet still it sings, this rogue of sound—
Where stolen words are free to bound.
It builds from chaos, rule by whim—
A beast with jokes carved into limb.

[Chorus - call-and-response, if done by two people]
Oh English! — (What are you?)
A sweet linguistic mess!
We curse your rules, then acquiesce.
We love the way you never stay—
A shapeshift tongue that won't obey.

So curse it soft, or curse it loud,
Then wear your spelling like a shroud.
But love it still, this mongrel tongue—
Whose battle with itself is sung.

Oh English, wild and wondrous wreck,
A genius ship with holes on deck.
A tragic joke, a syntax scream—
The language of our fever dream.

Afterword

English is a mutt.

She isn't fair. She's not consistent. She's not even particularly sane. But she is ours, in all her broken-glass beauty. Her absurdities give character. Her contradictions give punchlines. And her unpredictability? Well... that's half the fun, and most of the pain.

You may never pronounce "bough" or "slough" without second-guessing yourself again. But you'll know you're not alone. This ballad is for everyone who's laughed mid-sentence, or stared too long at the word "yacht" wondering where the letters went wrong.