  A POOR, drab slattern washed a greasy plate Daubed and besmeared with crumbs and margarine, She had small time to think of tinsel Fate And yet she sang a Fate that might have been. When she, the Queen of distant Bangalore, (She saw it on a coloured map at school) Would lie with Bob upon a cushioned floor And jeer at Liza, dubbing her a fool. When she would bathe her limbs in ode-colone And promenade in parks with German bands, When she’d no longer watch the stars alone, But with Bob’s kisses on her melting hands. When she could gallop down the Margate beach And have her “photo” taken on the pier— (Bob told her once her face was like a peach, A dubious compliment! to witness here). And the bank-holidays, the giddy nights Of merry-goes and switch-backs at Earl’s Court— The penny-in-the-slot machines, the sights Of pygmies, men deformed of every sort, Abnormal women, men with scaley skins And Esmeraldas wise in magic lore Would bow to stout Viziers, Moujiks and Djins |
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