Bashful Jimmie
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