He had always dreamed of
A demure mother in a calico pinafore
Whipping up a batch of cookies
For his Boy Scout troop.
He took it all in stride, though, when he got one totally different, unique,
A near-octogenarian madcap in rhinestones.
With the glamour of a 40’s chanteuse,
The legs of a Grable,
The wasp-waist of a Hayworth
And the seductibility that blended
Dietrich with Gardner,
She was all his.
Not an ounce over 103,
Not a chip on her dainty tens,
Each eyelash laced with true,
Spit-made, War Bride mascara.
Daily she donned her banana Miranda toque
And seven inch heels that threw her into the
No excuses, no,
Her Son made no excuses.
“You just can’t fault that spunk.
Love it for what it is.”`
He relished each time she called out, full-throated,
Dashing from her bubble-bathed toilette to
Flouncing past, she’d declare,
“Shut your eyes, you Innocents,
Naked Lady coming through.”