My friends have all insisted I
Be photographed–I don’t know why.
My normal, natural sitting style
I learn at once, is off a mile;
The way I hold my mouth, forsooth,
Has suddenly become uncouth;
And just the way I cock my head
Fills this connoisseur with dread.
He blinds my eyes with ringside lights,
Covers his head to align his sights,
And “RELAX!” he says. His nerve I love,
But when I get a vision of
My wallet like a punctured blimp,
I don’t relax–I just go limp.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 16, 1951
