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'
The end