Walking into the seedy bar,
He saw her sitting on a stool.
She was smoking a thin cigar,
Legs crossed, thinking she was real cool.


Her red hair a disheveled heap,
Bright green dress was cut pretty low.
Too much makeup made her look cheap,
And runs in her stockings did show.


She had a long scar on her face,
Probably caused by a sharp knife.
Typical of dames in that place,
None of them good catch for a wife.


He moved down to the bar’s far end,
Not giving her another glance.
He wasn’t there to make a friend,
Nor looking for a new romance.


Customers often came and went,
While he kept refilling his glass.
Soon he happened to catch her scent,
A perfume that seemed to add class.


Slyly, he looked her over then,
Admiring her shapely form.
He ordered another beer when
Noticing himself growing warm.


That long scar, he had to concede,
Might be caused by an accident.
Driving, perhaps, at too high speed,
And against the windshield she went.


An interesting hairdo, too,
Set high in that exotic way.
Mascara was a lovely blue,
Like the sky on a cloudless day.


Red hair certainly went with green,
The color of her pretty gown.
She looked like women he had seen
Outside the opera, uptown.


A shame that her stockings had run,
Probably snagged them on that stool.
But her legs were "A" number one -
Guy that stood her up was a fool.


He went to the restroom, and then
Changed his barstool on his return.
But his ardor was cooled off when
His advances she sharply spurned.