Of legs and girls I sing, and may my lines
not prate of heroes, but laud concubines;
for I will sing of sloth and drunkenness,
the bay complexion, and the bleach-blond tress;
cheap shades that hide the windows of the soul;
florid tattooes, and such-like folderol;
the sandy flapping-flop of sandaled feet;
the hand-held signs, scrawled large and indiscreet:
Show us your tits!; the mayhem on the lake
where boats rip by with jet-skis in their wake;
where smells of suntan oil and ganja mix
with hot wings, tepid beer, and incense sticks.
In droves they come, when March is midway spent,
to waylay men who stare in wonderment,
stopped dead and ogling near-stark-naked imps
instead of settling for a passing glimpse.
No shirt, no shoes, no service, warn the doors
of restaurants, and big-rigs reading Coors
tangle with pickup trucks in traffic knots
where clutches of inebriated tots
pump fists and holler in the open beds;
where hammered hotties, flaunting beads and dreds,
flash townies, and where startled motorists,
naive to throngs of exhibitionists,
surrender sanity and crane their necks
to spy the bare skin of the fairer sex;
stunned at the wheel, bereft of self-control,
all for a naked female areole.
But should we trespass on their innocence?
Dilute their beauty and concupiscence
with talk of prudence and sobriety,
the sacred tenets of society?
Force bland proscription on their happy lots
with moralistic lists of thou shalt nots?
Alloy their juvenescent joy with cant,
because their wits are dulled, their clothing scant?
No, let us leave them to their raucous sport,
and may their lithe and lissome limbs cavort
in vivid sunshine that can do no wrong,
unless it be to bring to light a thong
entrenched in cloves of flesh that give distress
(plus a faint memory of manliness)
to leering Aqualungs who lurk by palms
and take such visions as a kind of alms;
who, fourty years before, would not be shy
to breathe a compliment, or wink an eye.
And let the hearts of lasses swell the more
when, blue-haired ladies fled, they take the floor;
and may we bent and stodgy bulls harrumph
our bitter envy, when young bucks galumph.
not prate of heroes, but laud concubines;
for I will sing of sloth and drunkenness,
the bay complexion, and the bleach-blond tress;
cheap shades that hide the windows of the soul;
florid tattooes, and such-like folderol;
the sandy flapping-flop of sandaled feet;
the hand-held signs, scrawled large and indiscreet:
Show us your tits!; the mayhem on the lake
where boats rip by with jet-skis in their wake;
where smells of suntan oil and ganja mix
with hot wings, tepid beer, and incense sticks.
In droves they come, when March is midway spent,
to waylay men who stare in wonderment,
stopped dead and ogling near-stark-naked imps
instead of settling for a passing glimpse.
No shirt, no shoes, no service, warn the doors
of restaurants, and big-rigs reading Coors
tangle with pickup trucks in traffic knots
where clutches of inebriated tots
pump fists and holler in the open beds;
where hammered hotties, flaunting beads and dreds,
flash townies, and where startled motorists,
naive to throngs of exhibitionists,
surrender sanity and crane their necks
to spy the bare skin of the fairer sex;
stunned at the wheel, bereft of self-control,
all for a naked female areole.
But should we trespass on their innocence?
Dilute their beauty and concupiscence
with talk of prudence and sobriety,
the sacred tenets of society?
Force bland proscription on their happy lots
with moralistic lists of thou shalt nots?
Alloy their juvenescent joy with cant,
because their wits are dulled, their clothing scant?
No, let us leave them to their raucous sport,
and may their lithe and lissome limbs cavort
in vivid sunshine that can do no wrong,
unless it be to bring to light a thong
entrenched in cloves of flesh that give distress
(plus a faint memory of manliness)
to leering Aqualungs who lurk by palms
and take such visions as a kind of alms;
who, fourty years before, would not be shy
to breathe a compliment, or wink an eye.
And let the hearts of lasses swell the more
when, blue-haired ladies fled, they take the floor;
and may we bent and stodgy bulls harrumph
our bitter envy, when young bucks galumph.
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