| With her hair up in his fingers,
|
| The fish and chips smell lingers.
|
| Under amber street lamps,
|
| She hold the law in her hands.
|
| The moistness of the damp night
|
| Falls silent through the lamp light.
|
| Although she’s only 14,
|
| She really knows her courting.
|
| And up the railway sidings,
|
| There’s him and her. |
| They’re lying.
|
| Hand in hand, they whisper,
|
| «You're my Mrs.» |
| «I'm your Mr.»
|
| The moon was white and virgin,
|
| And she was on the turning.
|
| Remember your first nibble.
|
| When best friends were so little?
|
| They really trooped the colours
|
| When walking with each other.
|
| And all her mates would giggle,
|
| As lady-like she’d wiggle.
|
| All along the high street,
|
| They’d spalsh out on an ice cream.
|
| He’d sometimes really treat her,
|
| When he’d done his mother’s meter.
|
| Well, he went off to Borstal.
|
| He said that he was forced to
|
| Rob the flats of hi-fis,
|
| Cause she was ill and she would cry.
|
| Each morning, she got sicker.
|
| Her mother sometimes hit her.
|
| If she’d have known the story,
|
| She would have been so sorry.
|
| He received a letter and admitted it,
|
| There was nothing else to do but get rid of it.
|
| Lonely in his dormitory, he’d sit and stare.
|
| Was this for real? |
| And was it really fair?
|
| Summer came, so they went
|
| Down to the coast in his tent.
|
| She cooked upon his primer
|
| And sampled local cider.
|
| She told him in his rucksack,
|
| «I think I want that chance back
|
| To be perhaps the one who
|
| Will forever love you.» |