The sort of girl I like to see <br />Smiles down from her great height at me. <br />She stands in strong, athletic pose <br />And wrinkles her retroussé nose. <br />Is it distaste that makes her frown, <br />So furious and freckled, down <br />On an unhealthy worm like me? <br />Or am I what she likes to see? <br />I do not know, though much I care, <br />xxxxxxxx…..would I were <br />(Forgive me, shade of Rupert Brooke) <br />An object fit to claim her look. <br />Oh! would I were her racket press'd <br />With hard excitement to her breast <br />And swished into the sunlit air <br />Arm-high above her tousled hair, <br />And banged against the bounding ball <br />'Oh! Plung!' my tauten'd strings would call, <br />'Oh! Plung! my darling, break my strings <br />For you I will do brilliant things.' <br />And when the match is over, I <br />Would flop beside you, hear you sigh; <br />And then with what supreme caress, <br />You'd tuck me up into my press. <br />Fair tigress of the tennis courts, <br />So short in sleeve and strong in shorts, <br />Little, alas, to you I mean, <br />For I am bald and old and green.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-olympic-girl/
