Frinton on Sea
We’re at war
Me and next door
Bungalows at dawn
250 yards from Frinton’s sea shore.
He lines up his Gnomes, grievously
Facing me lawn
The Bastard’s got an ‘itler moustache
And what makes it worse
His missus and mine get on!
I heard the waves shushing up the shingle
I wouldn’t say they were coming for me
But Beryl said she’d heard me cry
Over next morning’s Bacon Butty.
Beryl and Mrs. D
Over glasses of sickly sweet Sherry
Me and Terry’s `problem`.
It’s not a problem as far as I can see
And I can
Sea for miles.
He’s the problem
Me car, me clubs, me Missus
And I’m better looking, generally
And I’m 65
And he’s 63!
I heard the Fog Horn
Groaning over the distance between us all
And I felt forever calling me back
Looking out over such darkness
From the comfort of me slippers.
Beryl says it was the Cheese on Toast
That’s what hurts the most.
Dreary sea-mist hanging over the pebbles
He called me over:
I ignored the mean-eyed git
It didn’t shake him:
“Oy, Hovis!” (I’m Brown, he’s so bleeding obvious)
Finally I throw him a “What d’yer want?”
“Fancy a pint at lunchtime?”
I panic, what’s on his mind?
“It’s her indoors”, he tries to play it down.
I chuck him a knowing frown:
And throw him another line back over my shoulder:
“I s’pose it wouldn’t do any `arm,
We’re both too old
For this malarkey”
I can feel his grin as I go inside
And I’m pleased
God knows why.
The waves whispered my name
And I thought of my mum
She said it like that
And I knew it wouldn’t be long
Before I was just another
Sad sea song.