Classic Poem

There isn't much dumb Dora doesn't know
About the art of pinning down a beau.
No homely woman's convoluted brains
Can pile in pyramids the broiling swains
Whom one dark look of Dora's pierces through
And one cool look of Dora's turns to glue
That sticks to her and sticks till she decides
To peel the fellows off for newer tides
Of humid little Don Juans who'd love
To fit her latest whimsey like a glove.

There isn't one erotic book on earth
That wouldn't fill dumb Dora full of mirth
If she had time to read or ever read
The books defeated ladies scan in bed
Who've had no luck in conquering Amor:
She needs no aphrodisiac to floor
A gentleman whose eye encounters hers:
He on a strap above the universe
That she, demurely sitting there, reveals:
Moon after moon, as the subway system reels.

There isn't much that such a girl must spend
On dresses long or short enough to blend
Whatever she is with all one cannot see,
Raising the apple on the hidden tree
Imagination fondles and adores.
Nickels and dimes and cheap department stores
Supply the poorest paid stenographer
With things to cover and uncover her
In case the girl, some night in Luna Park,
Happens to let some lover in the dark—

But Dora simply isn't one of these:
She knows enough of mankind not to tease
The fates by giving all she has away
Merely to rue the careless roundelay.
And so in her superb virginity—
A case for men to scan psychology—
She plays the very devil down the air
Or down the street, or down the hurried stair
That men begin to run to sit beside
What they would love to have and have to hide.