With Elinor Glyn
On a tiger skin?
Or would you prefer
To err with her
On some other kind of fur?
The poem celebrates a novelist--Elinor Glyn was a nom-de-plume--who scandalized 1920s Britain with novels which featured sexy women, one of whom greeted a lover naked, reclining on a rug (I don't think it was a tiger skin) with a rose clenched between her teeth. Well, at least back then they did it with some style.
Even more recently, sex and classiness were not strangers. Franklin Roosevelt had a mistress. John Kennedy wooed many women, but somehow it stayed behind closed doors and we didn't have to read all about it.
Well thank you, John Edwards. That's gone now. It is now on every TV screen, every front page in our grand country that you had an affair with a videographer named Rielle Hunter. And of course you were carrying on while your wife was battling cancer. Class, John, real class. And of course you've admitted lying about your affair, over and over. Seemed better at the time than speaking out, I suppose.
And in the midst of this confessional surge, you insist that you are not the father of Ms. Hunter's daughter. You're willing, you say, to be tested to prove this. Frankly, John who cares? You needn't; you have no future in politics, only a tacky past. The baby might care, I suppose--I mean, if it wasn't you, she might have a father she could respect.
Me, I don't care. You've done something very difficult, I think. You've given sex a bad name.
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