Thousands of wolves, of a hundred varieties,
Chase pretty women, offending proprieties,
Eye them in sweater and wind blown skirt.
Whistle and yodel and ogle and flirt.
Now let us turn from the wolves that adore them,
And visit a while with a guy that ignores them.
Yawns when he sees them in dresses quite shocking,
Bored by the glimpse of the top of a stocking.
Here in the midst of delectable cuties,
Jimmie goes on with his regular duties.
Gossip and rumor, and scandalous histories,
Jimmie prefers to all feminine mysteries.
He will not look at a costume that clings,
Nor panties, nor slips, nor silk underthings.
He won't even turn from a well laden table,
To gaze at the legs of Lamour or La Grable.
The sight of a sweater clad well rounded bust,
Would only fill him with righteous disgust.
And to ask him to kiss or to hug or to neck,
Would make him a total complete nervous wreck.
If he talks to a girl with charm, looks or glamour,
He'll choke and he'll gag and he'll stutter and stammer.
Just touch his hand or his arm slightly brush,
His face turns to crimson – My God does he blush.
A wink or a nod or a "come-hither-smile",
He classes them all as just feminine guile.
A kiss on the cheek, or a loving caress,
Makes him quiver and tremble, in direful distress.
He's innocent, naive, really guileless in fact,
With feminine figures he can't add or subtract.
He's free from girl trouble and all risque affairs,
He'll live to be ninety – BUT WHO THE HELL CARES.
J.B. Black Sr. 6-29-56