This is the month when tired old Summer drags
Reluctant feet across the leaf-strewn stage,
For currently a newer, younger, rage
Begins performance with a swirl of flags
And bright confetti. And this gypsy’s rags,
While colorful by almost any gauge,
Are not the point of focus; no, her sage
And nimble fingers pluck; a garment sags.
On goes her dance, as we all to a man
Lean forward, breathless, in the hope to catch
Some different angle as she shows her tan
Becoming self. As just the smallest patch
Remains to doff, November comes to stop
A stripper who’d be good to that last drop.
by Ray Romine Friday, October 1, 1948
