The Olympic Girl

The sort of girl I like to

Smiles down from her great height at me.

She stands in strong, athletic

And wrinkles her retroussé nose.

Is it distaste that makes her frown,

So furious and freckled,

On an unhealthy worm like me?

Or am I what she likes to see?

I do not know, though much I care,xxxxxxxx…..would I were(Forgive me, shade of Rupert Brooke)An object fit to claim her look.

Oh! would I were her racket

With hard excitement to her

And swished into the sunlit

Arm-high above her tousled hair,

And banged against the bounding ball"Oh!

Plung!" my tauten'd strings would call,"Oh!

Plung! my darling, break my

For you I will do brilliant things."And when the match is over,

Would flop beside you, hear you sigh;

And then with what supreme caress,

You'd tuck me up into my press.

Fair tigress of the tennis courts,

So short in sleeve and strong in shorts,

Little, alas, to you I mean,

For I am bald and old and green.