ODE TO NICE
My youthful heart did thump and ache
for perfect love I read in books.
When Nice slid up and took my hand
I pulled away with frightened looks.
An ideal mate wormed through my brain -
a smile, those eyes, that steady voice.
I searched in vain - for I was vain -
to think it really was my choice.
On almost every Friday night,
my heart would swell and pound,
for there across the bar or club,
my true love I had found.
That look, the build, those clothes just right,
brown hair, blue eyes, teeth white as ice;
My eager heart throbbed and rejoiced,
while I dredged up my sultry voice.
My place or his? We'd drive away;
a life to plan . . . but first to play.
And when the sun began to show,
to work or golf . . . he'd need to go.
Always then, my sadness flared.
My perfect mate just hadn't cared.
For when he saw "her" inside his head,
it was not me he took to bed.
And all the while, Nice sat and stared
and cursed that he had never dared,
to trap me in his arms and state,
"Given half a chance, I could be great."
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