by Steve Morris So there's little Frankie Forrester An' Albert Mac an' me Off wi' St Augustine's church Fer a few days by the sea Eighteen lads wi' not much sense Not thinkin' 'bout the cost Cos we've brass in our pockets fer chuckin' away An' we've cherries to be lost I gets the lecture 'fore I leave About what I should expect Mi dad sez I'll meet Jezebels Who'll steal mi self respect He warns about strong drink as well An' an oath he makes me swear But I keep mi toes an' fingers crossed I'm determined t' 'ave mi share Well, it's 'alf-past-six on Friday night An' I'm ready fer 'ittin' the street Wi' mi drainpipe pants an' luminous socks I'm lookin' a rare ol' treat Plenty Old Spice an' Brylcreamed 'air Can't fail wi' the wimmin I'm told But mi mam says I 'ave to wear a warm vest So's I don't go back 'ome wi' a cold Me an' Frankie start off on t' Draught Guinness But I've never been used to strong beer An' I've guzzled eight pints by a quarter-past-nine An' I'm feelin' decidedly queer The room starts spinnin' round clockwise So I dart round the bar fer a pee An' mi mates drag mi out an' they put me to bed An' I sleep until Saturday tea By Saturday night I've grown wiser No more o' that boozin', no fear I'm in need of a woman fer frolics an' fun An' I've spotted one down on the pier She's big, an' she's bonny an' busty A short frock an' a Kiss Me Quick 'at So I buy 'er a big bag o' chips an' fish bits An' she takes me back 'ome to 'er flat I tell 'er she'll 'ave to go gentle On account I'm a sensitive lad So we sit on the couch an' she spins me a yarn On the 'undreds o' lovers she's 'ad She teaches me all about foreplay Them erogenous zones I can rub An' she's got me stripped off to mi vest an' mi socks When 'er 'usband comes in from the pub He's brought 'ome 'is mates fer some supper They're hard lookin' buggers an' all So I'm out o' the 'ouse like a rat up a pipe An' I'm 'idin' behind t' petty wall In less than a minute they've found me Reduced to a blubberin' wreck An' they drag me on t' beach an' they dig a big 'ole An' they bury me up to mi neck Ten o'clock, Tuesday they find me Washed up under t' Great Western Pier I'm wearin' sod all but mi luminous socks An' a donkey's stood nibblin' mi ear I gives 'em mi statement at t' cop shop It's all sorted in ten minutes flat Then a bloke who's in some sort o' media job Takes mi picture an' 'as a long chat Mi dad's none too cheery next mornin' When I rolls 'ome in Mr Plod's car Cos the neighbours've started to gossip an' laugh An' I'm on the front page o' the Star 'AIN'T LIFE A BEACH' runs the 'eadline Then tells all the world the sad fact: 'VICAR'S ELDEST ON SNIFF AT THE SEASIDE VIRGINITY STILL FIRMLY INTACT I'll never forget that encounter An' I think the same's true fer mi dad Cos the Bishop called round later on in the week An' he seemed just a teeny bit mad He posted th' owd chap to the Orkneys Where we've been now for nearly six year An' if I couldn't lose mi cherry on a weekend wi' Frank Well, I've no bloody chance livin' 'ere
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