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.»