My mother was a flapper, and I was born during Prohibition
                                                       in the United States.  Of course, that gives me no credential
                                                       for writing this piece except for my own amusement and to
                                                       bring a little sunshine into your life by sharing with you this
                                                       fictional memory of a bygone era.  Enjoy!                                                  


                                                         
                                                        
                                                                                          
 
               Flappers &
             Speakeasies

                                                                         The sun sank slow as I waited so queasy                                                                       
                                                                         For nightfall, Molly and our Speakeasy                                                        
                                                                         My Model T Ford was polished and sharp                                                                 
                                                                         Beautiful black with a covering tarp

                                                                         Molly was gorgeous in her short red skirt

                                                                         Stirring my loins, enticing my flirt

                                                                         Showing shadows of thighs and lovely bare knees

                                                                         Fringe-hemmed bottom fit to please

                                                                         Exciting my heart with plans to hatch

                                                                         In her red hairband with feathers to match

                                                                         Long string of pearls and stockings meshblack

                                                                         Groovy, my man, queen over jack

                                                                         In my new blue suit and the best of hats

                                                                         My shiny black shoes covered with spats

                                                                         A stiff white shirt and red-patterned tie

                                                                         I looked so good, I made her cry

                                                                         Speakeasies were hot in Prohibition,

                                                                         Lots of beer and little nutrition

                                                                         There was no drinking, according to law

                                                                         But everyone got drunk and acted raw

                                                                         The talk-thru opened, one eye I could see

                                                                         Which prompted my classic, “Joe sent me.”

                                                                         A hundred diners all in great duds

                                                                         Steak and champagne and lots of suds

.

                                                                         We had a few beers and clapped our hand

                                                                         Costumed dancers and Billy’s Flash Band

                                                                         All too soon, it was nothing but fun

                                                                         The Peabody, Quickstep and Charleston

                                                                         We started at nine and left before two

                                                                         Right after we downed one last brew

                                                                         To Back Room Romp, we stomped alive

                                                                         ‘Cause the Feds wouldn’t raid till two thirty-five

                                                                          Owners and Feds all got ahead

                                                                          Bribes and politicos in the same bed

                                                                          Owners got word way in advance

                                                                          So we could all stay and enjoy the dance

                                                                          Speaking easy and sneaking a brew

                                                                          Ah, the good old days of twenty-two skidoo

                                                                          In thirty-three the sneaks went out

                                                                          As “wet” came in with lots of shout

                                                                          But Molly and me still do our thing

                                                                          Adapted to time with a new fling

                                                                          Have a houseful of kids and a new car now

                                                                          Sit quiet at night but still know how

                                                                          The memory’s not gone and dull like a haze

                                                                          We still miss the good ol’ days

                                                                          But Molly and me, we do our thing

                                                                          I like to dance, she likes to sing

                                                                          Our secret’s at night when we slip into bed

                                                                          She flaps at me and whispers, “Instead.”

                                                                          She wears a feather instead of a gown

                                                                          And I get still get to take Molly down

                                                                          Miss the good ol’ days?  Not on your life.

                                                                          I married the flapper and cuddle my wife!


                                                                          Richard Lee Orey
                                                                          Copyright 2009