Hank wandered through the park.
It was a warm bright day.
Young broads were lying on
The grass in groups of two

Or more, exchanging talk,
Laughter, giggles, snippets
Of conversations caught
His ears, and then what did

He say? And what happened
Next? Did he really do
That? Lingered in the air,
Fingered about his head.

He sat on the park bench
And watched, the dames, their young
Bodies spread out upon
The grass like sirens there

Upon a sea of green, their
Skirts barely covering
Their ass, their eyes, youthful,
Alert, bright as the sun

Caught them. But he was just
A viewer now, not one
To pursue the fine art;
He was like some painter

Who would give up the act,
But still viewed the art scene,
Seeing what was the thing,
What was new, what was fresh,

Knowing he had not made
The grade with the art
For all his taking part.