You’re sitting at night on a vine-covered terrace
With a very nice portion of unmarried heiress
And the nerve to be bored, but the other eleven
Out of a dozen would think they’re in Heaven.
You ‘re fishing up north where the pines tower taller,
Throwing back eighteen-inchers and anything smaller,
And you wish you were home, while some hard-work evaders
Would lease their eye teeth just to be in your waders.
So, dear public, we differ, and what pleases one
Ia hardly the other guy’s notion of fun.
And I worry, for Heaven holds what for a guy
Who can’t twang a harp and who won’t learn to fly??
by Ray Romine Friday, July 21, 1950
