In California we pronounce that "slew" or "sloo" and it roughly means "an area of muddy ground, a swamp, or something similar," and the name is found extensively in the Sacramento Delta region in Northern California to describe bodies of water that comprise the Delta. Look up in Google Sutter Slough or Elk Slough, and I would guess there's plenty of Google Earth images on the database. Kinda like a giant swamp. No alligators, however.
Another variant is pronounced "sluf" and means something like getting rid of something on one's skin, "sluf" off dry skin, etc. I've never heard of "Slough" as in "Cow..." It must be quite some place. Whatever happened to that Southern Lady with the batting eyelashes???? Dave Posted by: "colin.fletcher" [EMAIL PROTECTED] colin_in_ohio Mon Mar 26, 2007 2:04 pm (PST) Well I am originally from Slough, England I am not sure I would agree with the pleasant surprise after my last visit there. Slough by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984) John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be pleasantly surprised by a stroll there. _____ Slough Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death! Come, bombs and blow to smithereens Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, Tinned minds, tinned breath. Mess up the mess they call a town- A house for ninety-seven down And once a week a half a crown For twenty years. And get that man with double chin Who'll always cheat and always win, Who washes his repulsive skin In women's tears: And smash his desk of polished oak And smash his hands so used to stroke And stop his boring dirty joke And make him yell. But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell. It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio, It's not their fault they often go To Maidenhead And talk of sport and makes of cars In various bogus-Tudor bars And daren't look up and see the stars But belch instead. In labour-saving homes, with care Their wives frizz out peroxide hair And dry it in synthetic air And paint their nails. Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough To get it ready for the plough. The cabbages are coming now; The earth exhales. [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
