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 ******
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 ****,



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.