The Lounge Lizard
Jinks, you’re a lounge lizard,
said one of the boys, as they set off,
in ’62, to the Lyric Ballroom.
(No neck-tie, no admittance.)
Jinks’ ensemble was outmoded Teddy-boy,
the straggling bootlace tie, the drapes,
the drainpipe trousers. The kiss-curl
blobbed in place by Vaseline.
Again, humiliation. Girl after (surely)
kind, good-natured girl.
The curl of moistened lip,
sometimes a nicer no.
Walk home at streetlight twelve,
the glow more still, much gentler,
than the dancehall’s sparkle,
but he now deep in unattractiveness.
He’d find a wife in time, of course,
be happy, enjoy domestic
plod-and-cope. The television, nightly
would sing of spangled sex.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet would
be pleased to hear from you.