Poor Tangerine
Too many walks in the park, dear Tangerine
Yellow speckled freckles on fields of green.
Autumn used her brush
In a hurried rush
Now Winter finds grays in which to preen.
Ah, but alas, sweet Tangerine
We have resources within us, my lovely queen.
We shall warm ourselves
Like two impish elves
By the fires, love’s passion, bold and keen.
What’s that you say, my feminine teen?
Your father is calling, and he’ll make a scene.
Because walks in the park
With boys after dark
Maddens him greatly, and he gets really mean.
Well I must say, your father can run!
And the fire in his eyes, like the setting sun!
I shall take my leave
And I shall not cleave
To the girl, whose father— has a gun.
D. Thurmond / JEF
12-15-2021
