Déjeuner

I thought Nick old,

but devilish.

He’s in a raffish

urban mould

not suited to

a woodland glade

and dappled shade—

and suited too.

That friend he’d picked

—his tasseled hat

and pink cravat—

just gazed at Nick,

and Nick at him,

while he pontif-

icated through the whiff

of sweat and gin.

I thought if I,

demurely stripped,

I’d catch Nick’s eye

and he’d be gripped.

I thought he’d itch

if I’d no stitch.

Oh! why

did I

pick

Nick?