|
|
Cold legs, and the wind blows up her belly because even though she has some hair on it like mine she wears such cold, thin, lacy little pants - just to please her lover.
If she tried to wear flannel ones he'd soon bawl her out for looking a frump.
My girl bores me', he'll say, 'I'm fed up with those flannel knickers of hers, to hell with her.
I've made good now and all I make in graft goes on women, lobsters and champagne.
I went hungry often enough as a kid.
So what - you can't take it with you.' I feel sorry for her, poor thing.
But I feel a lot sorrier for myself.
I'm not saying it out of selfishness, not a bit, but because you can't compare us.
|
|