The Wild Party

Queenie was a blonde and her age stood still.
And she danced twice a day in vaudeville.
Grey eyes.
Lips like coals aglow.
Her face was a tinted mask of snow.
What hips,
What shoulders,
What a back she had!
Her legs were built to drive men mad.

Tim Cavanaugh on Joseph Moncure March

March notes that he could usually be found "rubbing elbows with prostitutes and gangsters and those wicked people from Show Business, all of whom recognize me as a kindred spirit." He composed his signature work in pencil, sitting in a dark apartment, over three months of eight-to-ten-hour days. Surrounding that work was an idyll of jazz age swells, flamboyant artistes, and raucous parties culminating in blackouts, police raids, or both.