11
When Evan dropped me off at work after dinner, he decided to come in and see if the boys were still standing.
They weren’t.
The counter was littered with empty bottles . . . and Hank, who was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, mumbling. Jack, Bob, and Mac were sloppily seated on their barstools, singing a bawdy limerick. They swayed back and forth.
“No, no,” Jack interrupted. “Her bosom was white, not yellow.”
“Bosoms should never be yello’,” Hank agreed.
“Then what rhymes with fello’?” Mac asked.
“What fello’?” Bob asked. “I thought it was: her breasts were quite nice, and perky like ice.”
Jack snorted. “Perky like ice?”
“Call Ida,” Hank said. “She knows ’em all.”
Evan grinned and took a seat and began, “Her bosom glowed white on that warm summer’s night; and her
