And contains a large substratum of unpalatable truth;
Our women have been splendid, but the Sun himself has specks,
And the flapper can’t be reckoned as a credit to her sex.
Still it needs to be remembered, to extenuate her crimes,
That these flappers have not always had the very best of times;
And the life that now she’s leading, with no Mentors to restrain,
Is decidedly unhinging to an undeveloped brain.
Then again we only see her when she’s out for play or meals,
And distresses the fastidious by her gestures and her squeals,
But she is not always idle or a decorative drone,