Clara had her ticket
   She also had a rig.
        Because she was just starting
                         It wasn’t very big.
                               She slowly tuned the crystal
                                         And watched the meter drop,
                                               Then tapped the key a couple of times
                                                                     To be sure it wouldn’t stop
                                                                             Now everything was ready 
                                                                                           She called a short CQ
                                                                                                    And received an answer
                                                                                                                  On thirty-six sixty-two.

They chewed the fat’bout stuff and things,
                   `Bout dresses, work and dates.
                                     They finally called it QRT
                                           The girl sent eighty-eights.
                                                   Clara thought it mighty funny,
                                                          Whether it be Miss or Mrs.,
                                                                    To end a perfect QSO
                                                                            By sending “love and kisses”
                                                                                    It sounds too sentimental,
                                                                                              Just a little too much “goo”
                                                                                                     To be sending “love and kisses”.
                                                                                                             To a girl the same as you.

For an entire week she pondered;
           Wouldn’t even touch the rig.
                      She pushed her slide rule by the hour,
                                           Employing “logs” and “trig”.
                                                      She added and subtracted,
                                                               What could the answer be?
                                                                      To reach a happy medium
                                                                           Twixt eighty-eight and seventy-three

 Clara finally looked up from her work
                All smiles and not forlorn,
                           `Twas July in Nineteen-forty
                                      That THIRTY-THREE  was born.
                                                           There’s no real definition
                                                                  But its meaning is known well.
                                                                             It’s how a YL says good evening

                                                                                      To another friend YL.

This poem was written by W1HNE Bart Pooper in 1942

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