What it was like in the 40s

What it was like in the 40s

They don’t write ’em now like they did in the 40s;

Those craftsmanlike lyrics of love with its pleasures and pain.

The crooners don’t croon or the melodies swoon like they used to,

O my Sinatra and O my sweet Lilli Marlene.

The seams of their stockings rose all the way up in the 40s

Like ladders of Jacob, but girls wouldn’t give you their names,

Still, the lyrical trumpets sang hot, sad and sweet in the 40s,

O the great Satchmo and O the divine Harry James.

All the movies were flicks, and the boobs were called tits in the 40s.

They crammed them in sweaters and labelled them Lana or Jane.

The legs were all Grable, the heroes all Gable,

O my sweet Rosebuds and O my great Citizen Kane.

No-one was fit; they did not give a shit in the 40s.

They made love all night and washed their steaks down with champagne,

Died like flies in the wars, smoked, and visited whores,

O Casablanca, O Bogey, O play it again.

Peter Jeffrey