BEASTLY TALES

DON JUAN

Sammy Slickwit did truly believe,
That he was a gift to women; self deceive.
Maybe, indeed, he did have an appeal,
To those of the fair sex who would reveal,
That their ideal beau should have the look,
Of one who sells used cars, the look of a crook.
Slicked down hair, rather too long,
And emitting a male perfumey pong.
A toothbrush moustache, above not too white teeth,
A light coloured check suit underneath.
Add a purple tie and beige suede shoes,
And stand back and observe as false charm does ooze.

“Hello, my dear, my name is Sammy,”
“Do I look nice and clean? I wash with a chamois.”
“I couldn’t help but notice about you,”
“That you do provide a most spectacular view!”
The girl, whose name was Dora,
Looked, and smelled, like the most spectacular flora.
She turned to Sammy, with a most withering stare,
Causing him to wish he might not be there.
“Can’t win’em all,” he cleverly quipped.
“This one, it looks like, at the post I’ve been pipped!”

Sammy did like to attend old-fashioned dances,”
“I’m light on my toes, and so good with my prances.”
Or so he thought, in all matters so splendid.
To suggest otherwise would make him offended.
Saturday night, and there he was again.
Enraptured by the wonderful musical refrain.
And also by the bevy of ladies in taffeta dresses,
Swirling around the dance floor, no second guesses!
“May I cut in?” he suavely enquired.
“Get lost!” Sammy felt somewhat mired.
“Oh, well, try again,” thought he, in his finest regalia.
Not realizing that “Trying”, is the first step towards failure.

Sammy spotted an exceptionally pretty young lady.
“She looks just like my cousin, Rosy O’Grady.”
He made himself known to her by blowing a kiss.
A romantic device, indicating what bliss,
A dalliance with him could readily derive,
For her particular benefit, should she survive,
The pounding of her heart, on viewing him close,
Listening to his endearments, readily verbose.
But none of that! She gave him the finger!
Causing him to move on, no need to linger.

He finally arrived at the refreshment table.
Saw a matron there, certainly no Betty Grable!
On enquiring politely as to if she’d dance,
The matron sniffed loudly, saying, “Sorry, no chance!”