She sat with a Warwick Deeping,
    Her legs curl’d round in a ring,
Like a beautiful panther sleeping,
    Yet always ready to spring.

Tweed on her well-knit torso,
    Silk on each big strong leg,
An officer’s lady—and more so
    Than those who buy off the peg.

More cash than she knew of for spending
    As a Southgate girl at home,
For there’s crooning and clinging unending
    For the queen of the girls a the ’drome.

Beautiful brown eyes burning
    Deep on the Deeping page,
Beautiful dark hair learning
    Coiffuring tricks of the age.

Negligent hand for holding
    A Flight-Lieutenant at bay,
Petulant lips scolding
    And kiss the trouble away.

But she isn’t exactly partial
    To any of that sort of thing,
So maybe the Air Vice-Marshall
    Will buy her a Bravington ring.