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.