The Ballad Of Bobby Pickles

One Sunday morning about a month ago, I came home from a socially distanced run with a friend and sat down to eat. Adam was sitting there next to me, and coyly slid a piece of paper across the table. I rolled my eyes, HARD.

It was what looked like song lyrics. We live in an early revolutionary era town on the east coast boasting some very well kept historically charged cemeteries. Apparently he had spotted this civil war era tombstone on his walk home a few days earlier and was inspired:

I'm not sure if he had intended it to become an actual song, but why else would he have given me the lyrics? I asked him what he had in mind and he hummed a sort of country-ish, folk-ish cadence. Not that long ago I would have let him post his lyrics as an amusing idea, not wanting to touch the absurd pickle puns, but lately, I'm trying to avoid saying "no" to things.

Three hours later, the Ballad of Bobby Pickles was born.

As we worked together to rearrange the lyrics I tried to hold on to my dignity while making gentle suggestions that might best honor the deceased, but all in all I said yes to as much as possible. I don't regret it, I don't like writing lyrics and he's working on new songs about ordering sandwiches, a printer, Abraham Lincoln's assassination, and who knows what else. They're really pretty heart felt.

In case you want to sing along:

A lad from England 

Found himself done 

So he set off across the pond 

Surveyed the U.S. 

Landed an address 

In a place called Matteawan 

Well he lived in a jar 

They all called him bizarre 

Still he learned what family means 

But then came the war 

So he signed with the corps 

Shipped him down to New Orleans 

(chorus)

Our brine boy Bobby Pickles 

Amongst all the panic and peril 

You’ll outgun every last graycoat 

Then go to sleep in your barrel 

Fought tough with the boys 

Endured all the noise 

He’s anything but a coward 

Yet staring at death 

With that salt on its breath 

His heart turned quietly sour 

To escape the torment 

His thoughts would ferment 

In a dream of leaving the bayou 

He missed his dear wife 

And his northeastern life 

That big old cask to retire to 

(chorus) 

Then a shortage of dill 

Made his blood all run still 

Sent home in a fever so hellish 

Got served on the side 

And there’s where he died 

With a fate no one would relish 

(chorus) 

(second chorus)

Our brine boy Bobby Pickles 

Amongst all the panic and peril 

You’ve outgun every last graycoat 

Preserved in history in his barrel 

Brine boy rest in peace in your barrel