Boyish George and John Gaunt (Lad, Coz, Julja)

While I was profiling prospective voters I was repeatedly astonished to find how many Southern folks (not to mention Ari ((Ariagoesdown blog)), miao!) support 70-80% of Kerry’s positions, 45-55% of Bush’s, yet were all eagerbeaver to vote for Bush.
How could this be?
Let us examine a typical case . . . .

There sits the Widow Lang, in her cabbagerose papered front parlour, a freezedried Cat tom, the one she never got over, on the mantelpiece next to a faded daguerreotype of her greatgreatgrandparents back home amidst the cottonfields. On the rosewood, marbletopped sidetable, a yellowing, dogeared copy of Grit, dated 9.11.
Suddenly a sound of frantic hoofbeats ruptures the hermetic stillness of the room. A dismount, footsteps on the mossybrick walk. Barely time for a peep through the lace curtains . . . .
It’s Boyish George, come a’courting, in horsesweatsoaked boots, torn and snagged jeans tight across the butt, even tighter across his--well anyhow. String tie, a Marlboro spittleglued to his lower lip. The Widow’s heart goes a’thumpity thump. And look at his betrothal present! A knittingbag made Old Testamentstyle of the sewntogether foreskins of tens of thousands of Iraqi "thems," and inside, the goggleeyed head of Osama bin--no, it’s Saddam’s head. Well what’s the difference, ‘tis the thought that counts.
Widow all a’twitter. 9.11 come knocking no more on my door.

But then, the deep, powerful, tigerlike purr of a stretch Jaguar.
Why, it’s John Gaunt, also come a’courting.
John Gaunt, so tall, and so thin, and his French tie so chicly glistening, and his Armani suit so floppy you can’t see a nip or a bun to save your soul. And what’s he brought as betrothal gift?
Why it’s a, it’s a--it can’t be, thinks Widow Lang.
But it is. It’s a nosegay of Parma violets, pansies that is to say, flown in fresh from some Left Bank hothouse.
What a quandary, no time to think. (Except Widow Lang does think of that swarthy Rafe the Naderite, whose idea of courtship was to let out the air from her SUV’s tires, for a Hallowe’en prank; and of poor wispy Little David Cobbler, who emailed her a dollaroff coupon for a Thanksgiving tofurkey.)
Boyish George or John Gaunt?
Horsesweat and manly mangore and tarandnicotine and tightassed denim on the one hand.
On the other, a dozen lavender pansies.
Yet what if the nosegay conceals a threecarat diamond solitaire?
Yet what if it doesn’t?
What’s a gal to do?--Giac