Spring In The Jungle
p. 86 · Read in the full issue
Oh, they call me Jungle Liz, And I’m silly and I’m diz.
And I yearn for a perm of the hair.
My hair, it has gone straight, And I’ve bust my upper plate, And I haven’t got a single thing to wear.
In a mood such as this It’s always been my bliss To brood through a catalogue long.
I order what I lack— But when the things come back, In the words of the popular song: They’re either too short or too long, The “calico” weak or too strong, The pink is not quite to my taste— The waistline not quite to my waist.
They’re either too long or too small, Or else I’m too wide or too tall.
I don’t blame the store— May they have many more:— It’s just that I fear that I’ve not What this Catalogue woman has got.
Oh, my shoes they all flap, And my waists have a gap, And my nylons would make a girl grieve, I hate to remark What I wear after dark, Or the gaps that appear in my sleeve.
But the catalogues gleam With clothes like a dream, An< ten ° rder right through to P#£ e I wait then with joy Till my ship comes, ahoy!
I open my parcels and then: J S nc l t J? e y’ re to ° tight or too wide, I find that I can’t get inside.
The green nearly falls to my ankles— whats more I wrote “blue,”—and that rankles.
I’m thrilled with the dear little vest— But, it>s wrongly addressed!
I don t blame the store; It’s their best, I am sure— It’s just that I’ve not What the Catalogue’s got!