One midday in the bus--the S-line was its ilk--I saw a little runt, a miserable milk--

Sop, voicing discontent, although around his turban

He had a plaited cord, this fancy-pants suburban.

Now hear what he complained of, this worm-metamorphosis

With disproportionate neck, suffering from halitosis:

--A citizen standing near him who'd come to man's estate

Was constantly refusing to circumnavigate

His toes, each time a chap got in the bus and rode,

Panting, and late for lunch, towards his chaste abode.

But scandal there was none; this sorry personage

Espied a vacant seat--made thither quick pilgrimage.

As I was going back toward the Latin Quarter

I saw him once again, this youth of milk-and-water.

And heard his foppish friend telling him with dispassion:

"The opening of your coat is not the latest fashion."

Lauren RichardsComment