Fred Goes Into Detail

Women distinguish many a hue
Far beyond men's scope,
"Teal" it seems is vaguely blue,
A muddy shine is "taupe".

"Minutiae from which", we groan,
"There's little to be learned."
But Fred's not one to leave a stone,
However small, unturned.

Well yes, we say, the colour sense
Differs in him and her
So girls' minds aren't the same as men's?
Whoever thought they were!

Fred replies that what we've known's
Been attitudes to love
And shops and time and telephones
—All superficial stuff,

But now he feels he's found the key:
Whoever thought a girl'd
Be structured to not even see
The same objective world?

Yet Fred approves of Nature's plan,
(From which we can't escape):
Who'd want a woman like a man
Merely of different shape?

Fred and Fifi 

Old Fred's imagination has
In its conceptual net
A honey whom he thinks of as
Fifi Lafolette.

French maid, or can-can dancer at
Folies or Moulin Rouge,
She may best serve to indicate
A really not too huge

Array of varied images
In vision's repertoire,
Exotic with her flashing eyes
And her unfloating hair:

One of a princely harem? Well,
For accuracy's sake
Let's say, of the material
From which a lad can make

A sort of sensual symphony,
A meld of metaphors?
A blazon of humanity?
A condiment or sauce?...

When real girls come into play
The tactful little pet
Just waves her hand and trips away.
(Her perfume lingers yet.)