In the course of an average lifetime
It has been said
A man spends twenty precious years
Asleep in bed:
Seven more in eating
Or drinking at the bar
And most of the remainder
Trying to park his car...

Parking the car, parking the car,
Yellow bands. Unloading bays,
Other side Uneven days,
Up and down the back streets,
You don't know where you are:
You feel like Noah in the Ark
Afloat in what is now Iraq
When he found no place to disembark in,
Parking the car

There's a place... Where? Look, back in there!
No, it's the wrong side of the zebra crossing.
No, it isn't.
Then it must be less that 25 feet from the hump backed bridge.
It's a perfectly good, empty parking space.
What, in this street, at this time in the morning?
Drive on ... it's a trap!

Mustn't stop and mustn't wait
Mustn't even hesitate ...
'Nothing could be sweeter
Than to find an empty meter
In the morning'

For the Trooping of the Colour
They come from near and far
But all they ever see of it
Is the parking of the car.

Parking the car, parking the car,
Yellow bands. Unloading bays,
Other side Uneven days.
Hear the driver's mournful shout:
'Are you coming in or going out?'
Every time we feel we must stop
It's a crossing or a bus stop,
Every garage where we pull up
Has a notice 'Sorry, full up'

Parking the car, parking the car,
Several thousand miles a year,
Most of them in bottom gear
Crawling down the main street,
Without a guiding star.
Towards the closing of the day
We turn and head the other way,
We know we won't be home until it's dark
And we'll never ever find a place to park!

Surly Girls

Two St. Trinian's High School girls,
Not little dears with golden curls
But the original Ronald Searle's
Two little Surly Girls!

One Mademoiselle went mad today
Instead of French they've let us play,
So don't tell us "Crime doesn't pay,"
Two little Surly Girls!

Hail St. Trinian's Senior High!
Here's to our motto 'Do or Die!'
Kick the girls and make them cry!
Up! St. Trinian's girls!

(a girl is liquidated)
One St. Trinian's High School girl
No little dear with golden curls,
But the original Ronald Searle's
One little Surly Girl!

I've scalped the whole Domestic Staff
Dug Tiger traps in the garden path
And ambushed Matron in her bath,
One little Surly Girl!

Hail St Trinian's Senior High!
Here's to our motto 'Do or Die!'
Kick the girls and make them cry!
Up! St Trinian's girls!

I'm hunting our Headmistress, Miss Van Heusen,
She's not an easy target, that's the truth!
She seems immune to ordinary posion--
The Bombazine she wears is dagger-proof . . .
(The Headmistress enters, unobserved)
But 'spose I took a smashing lot of petrol
And when she wasn't looking . . .
(Headmistress shoots singer)

Written for the revue 'Penny Plain'.

Ballad for the Rich

We're the Noblesse of Burke's Peerage
Now Obliged to travel steerage
In the ship of State
With fellow travellers we hare...

The Daily Herald hates us
The Worker execrates us
They wouldn't take us in if we were dying in a ditch
A last resort we dare not try
With duty on our death so high
Oh no one wants the poor deserving rich!

It's the same the whole world over -
It's the rich who get the blame;
It's the poor that gets the pleasure
Is it not a crying shame?

While we rich must queue for taxis
How the poor man sneers at us
Riding on his workman's ticket
In his special workers' bus!

When his five day week is ended
The the poor man can relax,
But on Saturdays and Sundays
We must work to earn our tax.

It's the same the whole world over -
It's the rich who get the blame;
It's the poor that gets the pleasure
Is it not a crying shame?

While we rich will always tell you
That we can't afford one yet
All the poor, without exception
Have a television set!

See my eldest, down from Oxford,
Seeking work from yard to yard,
But the idle workers spurn him
Born with out a union card!

It's the same the whole world over -
It's the rich who get the blame;
It's the poor that gets the pleasure
Is it not a crying shame?

In the gilded picture palace
Sits the poor man at his ease,
While we rich, in squalid night clubs
Cringe in fear of the Police!

We congratulate the poor
Now they're socially secure;
But there are other classes
Besides the Masses.

It's the same the whole world over
It's the well-to-do who incur all the odium
While the indigent reap all the benefits
Don't you consider that this is an intolerable discrimination?

The Man from Aix-les-Bains

While touring on the Continent a year or two ago,
We met a dreadful man who made us call him "Uncle Joe",
We never caught his proper name, in fact we only know
Him as the Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

He did impersonations, largely Irving in The Bells
Referred to Auntie Edith and my mother as "The Gels",
He said he'd look us up if he was passing Tunbridge Wells.
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

One Sunday during dinner, at the door there came a rap,
We looked out through the letter-box by lifting up the flap
And standing on the flowerbed in a dreadful linen cap
Was The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

He used my Blüthner piano lid to strike himself a match
Remarking "Poor old baldy, why you're losing all his thatch"
And when the phone bell rang he shouted "This is Colney Hatch"
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

He never once stopped talking through the Television play,
Till finally, at midnight he got up to go away.
I said "Must you be going?" He replied "Alright, I'll stay".
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

My patience by this time I fear was wearing pretty thin
I put him in the guest room. He said. "Cheerio, chin, chin!"
Exhorting all my women folk to "Come and tuck me in".
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

Next morning when he left I couldn't trust myself to speak
He shouted "Au revoir, mon brave" and kissed me on the cheek.
That evening he was back again, and every night that week!
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

We finally decided that our only course was flight.
We sold our home and went to live in Shanklin, Isle of Wight -
But standing on the jetty was a most unwelcome sight,
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

So listen all you voyagers who sail across the sea,
And all you summer travellers just take this tip from me,
Don't ever talk to strangers, they may turn out to be
The Man We Met at Aix-Les-Bains.

Originally written for 'Airs on a Shoestring'.