When a certain fella has had a drink or two or three, he’s bound to wink at the little lady dressed in pink. Her drink’s cubes give a subtle clink as she decides what she might think. Is he a stud or just a fink?
His clothes are sort of rinky-dink, yet her long lashes, swathed in ink, flutter in a come-on blink. One fingernail is seen to sink into her glass. He’s at the brink of coming over to seal the link. She checks her breath. It doesn’t stink. She reaches down and dons her mink. But then he stops and seems to shrink. In this sure deal there seems a chink. It’s clear that when she deigned to flirt, she missed the writing on his shirt. “Be kind to animals,” it said, “Who’d be caught wearing something dead?”
That your girlish form is rather cute is not a fact we would dispute; and though you’re held in good repute, yet every male’s lack of pursuit from callow youth to crusty coot is a subject that is moot. The men would be more resolute— more determined to press their suit— if only you were less hirsute!
Two things of value that are fleeting–– life and love both set hearts beating. Both sadly lost by types of cheating: one by libido overheating, the other just by unwise eating. Once over, though, both bear repeating.
They joked about their names. His name was Johnnie, she was Frankie. It’s true that she was beautiful, he handsome, tall and lanky. He was a genteel southern boy, while she was born a yankee. Every time she looked at him, her heart went a bit wanky, but the slowness of his courtship rites was making her most cranky.
For though she appeared shy, at heart she was a trifle skanky. As he contemplated holding hands, she dreamed of hanky panky!
Remember when the Saturday Evening Post had a feature entitled “The Perfect Squelch” that featured a different perfect comeback every issue? Well, then, you must be as old as I am.
My blind date worked out most sublimely. First of all, it was most timely, for my ex had told me he would be there with another she. I waltzed in regally well-armed with date both handsome, rich and charmed. His tux immaculate, his dental work just out-shined by his mental acumen. He quoted Proust! So when my ex came up to roost on a chair next to the mirror where I was perusing my form and hair and said we made a lovely pair; I answered, “Him? He’s just a spare.” He poked my middle, then tweaked my nose. “Well then, when your spare tire blows, they’ll come in handy, all those guys. Or, you could simply exercise.”