It was the middle of a cold December,
in what year, I don’t quite remember;
in fact, I barely recall anything at all,
except that she was fat and I, slender.
I tell a lie, I can’t deny, she wasn’t fat,
it’s childish angst to recall her as that;
there was more to her than I knew her,
so, I’ll tell all, lest this verse goes flat.
She had eyes like the sea and its gales,
and hair of gold like windblown sails;
her most endearing feature, my teacher,
that she licked her lips when telling tales.
She was my first real crush, I was five,
and she was the sexiest woman alive;
from head to toe, a twin to Jean Harlow,
I’ve thought of her that way all my life.
She always had some lace in her dress,
certain styles were woven in, I guess,
she never knew some were see-through,
and it made my mind a frazzled mess.
All I could do was dumbfoundedly stare,
I wanted to do more, but didn’t dare;
had I tried to touch what showed so much,
would she have chided, or not even care?
Her dresses were so distracting, in fact,
had I then more courage and less tact,
I’d hide in her desk, and gaze up her dress,
’til she saw me down there, looking back.
But, as it happens with crushes, they fade,
fantasies dim when what’s real is replayed;
what we used to recall wasn’t real at all,
but a dream that our memories had made.
Yet, with her, Miss McCaughley by name,
to even the dimmest light, she gave flame;
she was so much like Harlow, that I know
I’ll never look at the real Jean the same.