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THE SAGA OF ANNIE AND FRED
by
Monty Wells

Not a million miles from Aldgate
Down a mean and lonely street
Is an old decrepit churchyard
Where the drunks and winos meet

On the night in question
We see the couple lurch
To their little pied-a -terre
Beneath the ruined church

Together they crept in the crypt
Where they nightly had a bed
She was known as 'Old Tomb Annie
And he was 'Gravestone Fred'

But this was not like other nights
For tomorrow Gravestone Fred
Was off to the D.H.S.S.
They'd promised him some 'bread'

"Fred" said Annie thoughtfully
"You really look a sight
You can't collect your dole like that
We'll spruce you up. Tonight!"

So Annie with her flat iron
Pressed her lovers dungarees
Though like her they were ragged
And going at the knees.

Fred, bemused in fumes of 'meth's'
Lay on his bed of rags
And with a pile of 'dog ends'
Rolled himself some fags

He then with blissful smile reclined
With hiccup, belch and scratch
He lit the fag and... drunken fool
Carelessly dropped the match

Spirits drunk upon that bed
Enough to rot your socks
Quite a lot soaked into it
And up went this tinder box

It only took the fire brigade
Two minutes to arrive
And brave lads, they dashed inside
And dragged Fred out, alive!

Heat was fierce and firemen bold
Begged Annie to come out
But she carried on her labour of love
True love without a doubt

So Annie came to her demise
Beneath that flaming spire
I saw the headlines in the press
'TOMB ANNIE IRONS IN THE FIRE'

 
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