I’d trade mine for the model’s job,
Enthroned upon her dais;
Though I’ll admit- -if pressed on it–
I don’t know what her pais.
No woolen shortage for this gal–
Her working clothes are simple:
Unlike the rest of us, she’s dressed
In sigh, or smile, or dimple.
And red points are no problem here
For she muet watch her diet,
Which can’ t be shunned: if she’s rotund,
The canvas–who would buy it?
The fuel shortage is the catch,
With that uncovered torso:
65 degrees, and me, I freeze
Without exposing moreso!
by Ray Romine Wednesday, February 14, 1945
