by Colin West 'Tell us, tell us, Grandad, How off you went to war, And fought the Battle of Brighton In 1964 ...' Well, we rode down on our scooters On that Bank Holiday, We tooted on our hooters And folk got out the way! Our headlights were a-gleaming, Our mirrors, they were too: On each and every aerial A Union Jack we flew. Now, when we got to Brighton And went along the Prom, There came a hoard of Rockers, Lord only knows where from! I'll tell you of them Rockers -- They drove us up the pole, 'Cos we liked Motown music, While they liked rock 'n' roll. And up against that rabble, They weren't a pretty sight, With bottles at the ready And looking for a fight ... It started with some jeering (It might have been the booze), Then someone yelled a war cry And soon all hell broke loose. We set about them Rockers (We didn't know no fear!) We pelted them with pebbles And chased them up the pier. But as I grabbed one greaser, His girlfriend took offence: She hit me on the helmet And left a lot of dents. I fell, but that fair lady, She held me in her arms, She cradled me and told me She hadn't meant no harm. 'Twas then I had a vision, And saw that it was wrong To pick a fight with someone When folk should rub along. We slipped away together (She gave her boy the boot), With her dressed in her leathers And me in my mod suit. And being with that woman, My new life soon began: The next year we got married: That girl is now your nan! "Thank you, thank you, Grandad, For telling us once more Of how you met our granny In 1964!"
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