For Alice

On the old A-road out of England
Lies a graveyard of knackered out ‘vans,
Once sumptuous six-berths with flush toilets,
Now rusting heaps past their life-span.

In the one at the end near the turn-in,
Lives Alice, our heroine dear.
Like the ‘van she lives in, she’s past it
But was once the belle of Rhyl pier.

She sits in the galley style kitchen
And stares through the steam fogged cracked glass
At the cars as they speed, going Westward,
And remembers her life as a lass.

At eighteen, she was tall, blonde and handsome.
She sold ice cream to the crowds on the pier.
Her looks made her stall young men’s favourite
And they’d come buy her wares to be near.

She was never without her admirers
And often went out with a ‘beau’
For nothing more serious than dancing,
Then came Alf, with his wild oats to sew.

A six foot tall docker from Bootle
On his works week and out for a thrill,
Took Alice behind the Queen’s Dance Hall
And cruelly went in for the kill.

It wasn’t so much a knee trembler,
As a one sided wrestling match,
And Alice succumbed to Alf’s yearnings
There, on the cold concrete patch.

Weeks later, and showing, poor Alice,
Had to leave her seafront bed-sit.
Her landlady didn’t take kindly
To girls who had clearly done ‘it.’

Taken in by a spiv on the backstreets,
Who arranged for an end to her woe,
She was put to work only weeks later,
Worked her patch for ten bob a go.

Years passed and her looks starting fading
And her price fell, so losses were cut.
Again, Alice found herself homeless,
Just another, worn out old slut.

Now, on the old A-road out of England
Lies a graveyard of knackered out ‘vans,
Once sumptuous six-berths with flush toilets,
Now rusting heaps past their life-span.

In the one at the end near the turn-in,
Lives Alice, our heroine dear.
Like the ‘van she lives in, she’s past it
But was once the belle of Rhyl pier.

She sits in the galley style kitchen
And stares through the steam fogged cracked glass
At the cars as they speed, going Westward,
And remembers her life as a lass.