Not a Scotch Soldier!
Scene: Hotel verandah in Rhodesia. Time, 8:30 a. m., early 1919.
Personae: A South African Scottish N. C. O. in the garb of old Gael, and civilian, to whom the former is telling the war tale.
Enter Indian waiter, who breathlessly addresses the soldier:
“You are wanted, sir, at once, at Room 23, and the lady says she feels bad this morning.”
“Great Scot! What lady? Excuse me, you fellows.” Precedes his hasty flight upstairs, where he had already noted that morning the presence of a very dainty pair of lady’s shoes outside the door of No. 23.
Knocking at the door, it was partially opened, and the fair unknown, peeping through the crack, no sooner caught sight of the kiltie than she exclaimed:
“My God! What do you want here?”
Soldier: “The coolie waiter said you wanted me badly.”
Lady: “The ⸺ fool! Why, I sent him for a Scotch and soda!”
* * *
I was born in Kentucky,
Raised in Tennessee.
If you don’t like my peaches,
Don’t shake my tree.
Oh, tell me how long
Must I have to wait,
Will you jazz with me now
Or must I hesitate.