NEW ORLEANS 1922.

Three girls being bothered by a cameraman on a beach in 1922.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the young schmuck said,
How’s about a nice
Pretty photograph,

 

Girls, something to show
The folks back home, you
In your beautiful

 

Bathing costumes, so
Young and so well wrapped
Up there? Sure, Betsy

 

Said, why not, though don’t
Think my daddy’d be
Too pleased about me

 

In this here costume.
You looked at the schmuck
And tried hard not to

 

Imagine the dark
Working of his brain,
What images lay

 

There, what sexual
Thoughts swirled around there
Like black oil in a

 

Sump. Sally looked just
Away from him, looked
Further up the beach

 

Or maybe the sea
Or sky, anywhere
But the young guy with

 

The camera, her
Being the quiet
Type and shy. But you

 

Knew his type, they were
Like haemorrhoids: a
Huge pain in the butt,

 

Always there with the
Words, the wise cracks, with
Their slimy sayings;

 

But you knew all they
Ever wanted from girls,
Beyond the mouthy

 

Outpourings, was you
In the bed or some
Secret place and to

 

Be undressed and to
Copulate with, to
Have their way; but not

 

With you; you knew the
Goings on, you knew
Which way those kind of

 

Things ended and you
Knew that even though
Betsy gave him the

 

Smile and ease, she’d not
Settle for such a
Creep with his false smile,

 

Wheedling words or
Bright eyed stare. So he
Took his photograph

 

And you were captured
There on the beach in
New Orleans amongst

 

The other young folk,
Beneath a sky of
Blue, in your bathing

 

Costumes, beautiful
And youthful in the
Year of our sweet Lord,
1922.