I'm Through Being Minglish With the Pseudo-English

I know an appellation’s not a mountain.
I know an adder isn’t a machine.
In short,it’s no hyperbole
To say I’m gifted verbally
And competent at stating what I mean.

But when I’m with Hermione, who married Someone Scion-y
And moved to dear old London from Decatur,
She’ll go to endless bother if I ask about her father
To tell me she assumes I mean The Pater.
What’s more, if I say, Golly, I must catch a bus or trolley,
She’ll eye me like I’m some semantic rube
And omnibus-and-tram me, till I mention subways (damn me)
And launch her on a lecture of The Tube.

I’ve learned a pretty fair pronunciation
Through studying my Webster by the volume;
So &emdash;though the fault is prevalent —
I never say irrevelant
Or speak about a column as a cotyume.

But when I’m with Hermione (nee something Babs O’Brien-y)
Who now dispenses caviar and culture,
She’ll note each dereliction in my dialectic diction
And swoop upon it quicker than a vulture.
If I — despite adversities — politely say her Mercedes
Must really make her leisure hours a pleasure,
She’ll tell me English ladies quite prefer a nice MerSAYdees
To while away — ah, yes — the hours of lessure.

I don’t call getting out of bed debunking;
And just to further show I’m no one’s fool
I don’t think offal’s terrible.
A turncoat’s something wearable,
Or flunky means a kid who fails at school.

But when I visit You Know, who corrects the things I DO know,
I find it such a chore to carry on,
The next time she gets uppity above a drink or cuppa tea,
What she’ll be holding won’t be her salon.
Some evening when Hermione gets vocal-social-lion-y,
Pronouncing Berkeley BARKly, as in Square,
Or flipping me some airy LondonDREE for Londonderry,
I’ll kick her in her Londonderriere.