A male dress-reformer of Sydney declares that the majority of Sydney women are not ladies, because they stare at his generous display of bare, brawny legs, and at times break into uncontrolled laughter.
Alas, my dear, be you high-born, Or just a Sydney cutie, I fear you’ve earned a he-man’s scorn Thro’ failing in your duty. A lady would avert her eyes, Taught by her caste to realise That the male leg without disguise Is not a thing of beauty. Even when used to underpin A dress-reforming dandy, ‘Tis still a prop of reddened skin, Mostly knock-kneed, or bandy. And, oh, my dear, you must have known How sensitive are those who own These knobby knuckles thickly sown With ebon hairs, or sandy. And oh, my dear, be you de Vere, Or just some saucy Sadie, To goggle when male shanks appear Is positively shady. But should you giggle –- Oh, dear! Oh! No matter how grotesque the show, All proper gentlemen must know You’re low. You ain’t no lady. But oh, my dear, and ah, my dear, Learn etiquette. For when, dear, You in those fetching shorts appear At tennis now and then, dear; Men may stare hard, they may stare long, Their heads a-whirl, their hearts a song; Yet, save your scorn. There’s nothing wrong. They still are gentlemen, dear.
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2003|