At the cocktail bar of the Learned Sock,
Where the repertory divas sup,
She picked up her Cambridge Companion
(Though he thinks he picked her up):
And he’s quite a nice boy really,
Behind the funny high laugh,
And his nerviness, and his skinniness,
And his stinginess, and that scarf.
She squints up knowingly, squeezing his arm
To her old-paint-perfumed dress.
“Well, dearie, don’t look so dreary!”
He titters, in some distress,
As he steers her manfully, hopefully,
Through the gates of the Cambridge Press.