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Kempy Kay

from Folk​-​Lore by Xisco Rojo

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lyrics

Kempy Kay's to the wooing gone
Far, far across the sea
And he has met with an old old man
His father-in-law to be.

“Good day, good day,” cries Kempy Kay.
“Good day good day,” cries he.
“I've come your daughter's love to win
Do you think she could love me?”

The father came unto the door
And he's peeped through the key-hole
And there he saw his daughter Jean
Was sitting amongst the coal.

Every nail upon her hand
Was like an iron rake.
The space between her nose and mouth
With dirt was thickly caked.

“Rise up, rise up, you filthy slut
And wash your foul face clean.
For your wooer will be here this night,
And your body's to be seen.”

Then up she rose, put on her clothes
And washed her foul face clean.
She cursed the hands and banned the feet
That brought no water in.

So they scraped her and they scrubbed her
Like the face of a rusty pan
Till Kempy Kay himself came in,
A clever and tall young man.

His teeth they were like tethering sticks
His nose was five foot long.
Between his shoulders was nine yards broad
And between his eyes a span.

Every hair upon his head
Was like a heather cow,
And every louse that looked out
Was like a crooked ewe.

He gave to her a gay cravat;
“Twas of an old horse-shit.
He gave to her a gay gold ring;
'Twas of an old tree root.

She thanked him once she thanked him twice
She thanked him over again.
“I've never had a ring in all my life,
But this night I have got one.”

He's taken her in his two arms
And kissed her, cheek and chin
“I've never been kissed in all my life,
But this night got many in.”

These lovers' bed it was well made
And at their hearts' desire;
These lovers' bed it was well made
Beside the kitchen fire.

The covering was a clouted cloak.
It served these lovers well.
And at their head a knocking stone
And at their feet a mell.

And each of the eyes in her true love's head
Was like a rotten plum.
And the drops that fell from her two eyes
Would make a mill wheel turn.

The skin upon this lady's breast
Was like a saffron sack
And aye his hands were tearing at
The scabs upon her back.

The scabs she had upon her arse
He tore off with his hand.
The clumps of dirt that hung from them
Would have mucked an acre of land.

And how they kissed and how they hugged
And how they kissed their fill
And the slaver that hung between their mouths
Would have tethered a ten-year-old bull.

credits

from Folk​-​Lore, released June 29, 2023
Xisco Rojo: Voice(s), 12-string electric guitar, 6-string parlor acoustic guitar, bass, toy piano, Prophet V3, Arp 2600 V, Buchla Easel V, singing glass, harpsichord, drums, handclaps, tambourine

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Xisco Rojo Madrid, Spain

Xisco Rojo is a guitarist and multi-instrumentalist who creates a music halfway between chamber folk, primitivism, sound art and experimentation.
hola@xiscorojo.com

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