It’s the bad old days, when young ladies are possessions
and they haven’t any agency, decision nor discretion.
And we’ve got the choicest one right here: our famous daughter,
a jewel that mustn’t fall to any robber or marauder.
She’s the gilding on our fortune. But a portion of her beauty
would be plenty to entice the finest, thus we’re snooty.
Got my “who do you think is good enough for my little girl” on,
‘cause you know the whole world’s wide, the whole world’s long,
and in the expanse of it, she might be the most valuable.
We keep her in the house until she’s wed. She might be malleable.
She might take up with interests. There’d be no marrying her then,
to the very, very handsomest of men.
Listen, it’s a burden being wealthy but the rumors I collect
indicate there is a suitor who could be without defect,
so beautiful of feature that he matches the bride.
Now he’s courting in the evenings, I hope stars could align (collide)...
Anything you could have, we have it.
Even got a devil in the attic.
Now these are the grand old evenings for a couple of reasons.
The beautifullest boy has got my daughter feeling feelings
(through a fence, and there’s chaperones, don’t think us dullards).
In protection of our asset, we keep her visage covered.
And his family’s intent to do the same. They stay in shadow.
But tonight’s the night it happens! Please don’t think us shallow;
we’re excited to inspect him, all we’ve heard, he’s such a prize.
They’ll be wedded in our parlor once she looks into his eyes.
Not an invited guest, more like a secretive squatter.
I’m here to appear, disappear, create fear inside your daughter.
She's mine. I got dibs. Had them ever since the crib.
I laugh at your decision to fib when she's not even yours to give.
I'm a ghost, a spirit, a deity. My reality is your realty.
I can cause quite a commotion if your notion isn’t fealty.
So send me up a BLT, and if you’re thorough, a Sapporo.
I'll forget you let her think she was ever something to be borrowed.
This union's got me fuming, cause a racket in the attic.
I'll malign your mansion, make it collapse and cause a panic.
I can be satanic. I suggest you profess your allegiance
or expect an attic avalanche of malevolent malfeasance.
I asked the groom to choose his doom: “Your life or your face.”
Anyone would pick the latter. You pick the former, you can’t replace.
The vain would rather die but the groom chose his life.
But will his wife like his type now that his face was a fright? Not quite!
Oh, fate! This is a tragedy of a face, son.
But we’re sadder for our daughter, who’s got this abomination
for a husband. He’s all busted up and ruined.
Wish we’d seen him in his glory.
Wish this could’ve been a happy story.
As the high class people our whole family used to be,
I must apologize for hosting the mostly demon-free
(except for the one exception) ruined evening of the wedding.
The other father fled it early, please convey to him my deep regretting.
Actually, I’ve been here the whole time.
I was just admiring these sliding screen doors.
These are nice, how do you slam these?