I overheard enough of this conversation to make a poem; I got a kick out of.
They sat upon the porch in shade
Those sweet old girls
With bouncing bobbing silver curls
Vodka laced their lemonade.
“As e’er we were we are the same
Now we purely hate to hear
Young lady, honey, dear
Lest some forget we have a name
And all that silly baby talk
Pat us on our heads, we balk
Shall we bow up, complain, nay.
“Youth wants favors from dear ma’am?
We’ll veer off vague, perhaps
From a handy memory lapse
Do they catch us in some jam?
We’ll open pale wide eyes
And tell them bald-faced lies
They brought on themselves this sham.”
Anne, Maude, and Mitzy
Thought to have fun that day
Youth had fairly begged to play
Their special game called Ditzy.
Virginia L. Wylie