Issue 25, Winter-Spring 1961
In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day
Rose a lady in skunk with a top heavy sway,
Raised a knobby red finger—all turned from their beer—
While with eyes bright as snow crust she sang high and clear:
‘Now who of you’d think from an eyeful of me
That I once was a princess, and proud as could be?—
Oh I’d never sit down by a tumbledown drunk
If it wasn’t, my dears, for the high cost of junk.
‘All the gents used to swear that the white of my calf
Beat the down of the swan by a length and a half—
In the kerchief of linen I caught to my nose
Ah, there never fell snot, but a little gold rose.