Station Syren

She sat with a Warwick Deeping,

    Her legs curl’d round in a ring,

Like a beautiful panther sleeping,

    Yet always ready to spring.

Tweed on her well-knit torso,

    Silk on each big strong leg,

An officer’s lady—and more so

    Than those who buy off the peg.

More cash than she knew of for spending

    As a Southgate girl at home,

For there’s crooning and clinging unending

    For the queen of the girls at the ’drome.

Beautiful brown eyes burning

    Deep on the Deeping page,

Beautiful dark hair learning

    Coiffuring tricks of the age.

Negligent hand for holding

    A Flight-Lieutenant at bay,

Petulant lips for scolding

    And kissing the trouble away.

But she isn’t exactly partial

    To any of that sort of thing,

So maybe the Air Vice-Marshal

    Will buy her a Bravington ring.