The English version

The bartender gives me another drink. The gathering is dull, with a surfeit of ugly women and men unworthy of respect and an insufficient number of attractive ladies and easy-going fellows. I spot an untrustworthy-looking man over by the jukebox making overtures to a woman. He fancies himself an impressive fellow, flirting with this woman who is more than just another sweet thing to cuddle with. In fact, she is extraordinary. I am awestruck by her beauty.

Now the would-be Romeo is leaning closer, pressing his romantic attack. So I cast my gaze in her direction. She gazes back: A confident connection is made. She crosses the room, stands beside me, orders a drink, tells a joke that I find quite amusing, then says she found her previous companion uninteresting. I like her and believe the reverse is also true. I sense the party is on its last legs and say so. We leave.

The Frank version

The barkeep fills me up with gas. The joint ain't hopping; it's no clambake, brother - too many dames and crumbs, not enough broads and players. I spot a fink over by the jukebox making the moves. He thinks he's a big-leaguer, scamming on a chick who - hello! - is more than a mouse. An 18-karat barn-burner, boy- the end. Ring a ding!

Now the big-leaguer's leaning closer, feeding her a line, but she's not biting. It's bombsville. He's nowhere; he knows it, and so do I. So I shoot the broad a come-hither look, and she shoots back: Solid. She crosses the room, sidles up next to me, gasses up, tells a joke that fractures me and says the big-leaguer was a Harve. I dig her, and she digs me. "I think it's going to rain," I say. And just like that, we're scramsville.