LordPeter List Literary Contest

"It's not my kind of place," thought young Harriet Vane,
In the lounge of the hotel, Resplendent by name,
But she could get to like it, young Harriet knew,
As she sipped at her coffee and took in the view.

The oboes were oh-ing, the horn players tooting,
The piano was tinkling, the flutes were all fluting,
The hands of the Floomer-strum player were prancing,
As the room watched the couple who just now were dancing.

The man was a gigolo, handsome but sad,
Though his face was quite frog-like, it wasn't half bad,
The girl wore a dress that was purple or pinkish,
And the look on her face showed she wasn't too thinkish.

In the midst of the glamour, the midst of the schmaltz,
While the dancers were dancing the Blue Danube Waltz,
Through the rose-colored glasses and stench of perfume,
Harriet thought something French about the room.

There were feathers from ostrich and other odd birds, sir,
And dresses with parts that I don't know the words for,
And fans and long skirts and all kinds of old stuff,
From a long-ago decade of frou-frou and fluff.

But the girls in the feathers and curls oh-so-fairish,
Had bodies that Harriet knew were quite squarish,
That would soon chase a Woogle-ball and squarely whack it,
On the Woogle-ball courts where they raised quite a racket.

The girls all had jobs and were all very smart,
They were zookeepers, cookers, or teachers of art,
They knew how to type and to take good dictation,
'Cause in World War One they had helped save the nation.

Whatever they wore at the Hotel Resplendent,
They didn't need men and were quite independent,
Like young Harriet, women these days were no fools,
They all played the game but they all knew the rules.

-- the glass-blower's cat

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