At parties I’m never
Resplendent or clever;
My wit doesn’t flicker;
When it comes to liquor ,
I hold myself rationed
To just one old- fashioned .
If it’s questions-and-answers ,
I hunt out the danoers
To be asked when my prancing
was over termed dancing.
So I pick out a girl
Everyone is ignoring
To find out, too late,
It ‘s my hostess I’m boring.
Then in whirs the Wit
Who knows Just what to say;
He is twice-effervescent,
And evor so gay.
He can’t hold a Job–
Or a wifo; and he owes
The Butcher, the Baker.
The wild oats he sows!
He is lacking in character,
Lazy as sin;
And he has lost count
Of the scrapes he’s been in.
Revolting? I’ll say–yet I envy the smarty
The night he turns up as the life of the partyl
by Ray Romine Sunday, January 16, 1949
