Dishabille in a manner that other girls seek,
she was blonde and piquant and golden and Greek.
The men swarmed around her every night
named her “Pepperoncini” and all craved a bite.
No one could predict what she’d wear, say or do,
for each day she invented her image anew.
Her restoration might be crazy dresses
a new career or wild colored tresses.
But in spite of the changes—the weird fuss and fiddle,
she remained the fun girl who was caught in the middle.
No change could obscure her irresistible soul
at sixty years young, still every man’s goal.