A paean to the purserette

IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS when ocean liners still roamed the seas, the men I knew often got into arguments about whether air hostesses were better (i.e. sexier) than ship’s purserettes. The terms are politically incorrect now, I know, but things were different then.

On the newspaper where I worked we had a competition to settle the issue. We reporters held a poetry contest, the prize being a six-pack of beer and a date with the editor’s secretary.

I won, but I only got the beer because I was married. My wife worked on the same paper so she would have known if I’d dated the secretary in any case. So I split my six-pack with the runner up, a friend of mine, and we drank it right there in the newsroom after the daily deadline had passed. As I said, things were different then.

By now, I know, you’re dying to see my poem, so here it is. It’s never been published before and you will probably be able to guess why:

 

An air hostess is a Freudian mess

All rigid and frigid and class

She’s straight up and down

Wears her face in a frown

And lacks, in her slacks, any ass

 

But a ship’s purserette is a cute little pet

All happy and snappy and comely

Her bows stick out front

Like twin prows on a punt

And her stern shows a turn quite bomely

 

(No clapping please, by request of the author.)

 

Today’s Thought

The urge to write poetry is like having an itch. When the itch becomes annoying enough, you scratch it.

— Robert Penn Warren, NY Times, 16 Dec 69

Tailpiece

“I think you’ve had quite enough to drink.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re all blurred around the edges already.”

(Drop by every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for a new Mainly about Boats column.)