Isabel makes love upon national monuments
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all.
She's done Stonehenge and the Houses of Parliament
But so far little Isabel's never played the Albert Hall.
Many a monolith has seen Isabel
Her bright hair in turmoil, her breasts surging swell.
But unhappy Albert so far denied
The bright sight of Isabel getting into her stride.

The Forth Bridge, The Cenotaph, Balmoral and Wembley
The British Museum and the House of Lords
So many ticks in her National Trust catalogue,
But so far the Royal Albert Hall has not scored.
Countless cathedrals can now proudly show
Where Isabel's white shoulder blades have briefly reposed.
Miserable Albert still waiting for
The imprint of Isabel on his parquet floor.

In Westminster Abbey she lay upon a cold tombstone
The meat in a sandwich of monumental love
With old po-faced Wordsworth unblinking, beneath
And a bright eyed young Arch-Deacon breathless above.
Many a stony faced statue has flickered iys eyes
And swayed to the rhythm of her litle panting cries
But oh wretched Albert never yet has known
Isabel's pretty whinnying echo round his dome.

The last night of the Promenades she waved to the conductor
And there and then on the podium with scarcely a pause,
With a smile and a bow and a loud "Rule Britannia!"
He completed her collection to enormous applause.
Rapturous Albert, now knows full well
He's captured forever elusive Isabel,
Prettily dishevelled but firmly installed
And faithfully for evermore to the Royal Albert Hall.

No more frantic scramblings up the dome of St. Pauls
No more dank rambles on Hadrian's Wall:
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all
Isabel makes love in the Royal Albert Hall.