Holiday romance.

A true story... There is nothing like an older woman in a man's shirt.




We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
While the other boys drank to their pledge

We walked to the beacon
The out at the beacon
Held hands and went to the edge

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

She told me she loved me
I told her my fears
We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento

Her name was Polly Anne
The same as my sister
Which smacked of incest
Every time that I kissed her

On the well rounded bottom
Of an overturned inflatable
And all was in reach
But how far was debateable

Down there
Down on the beach
Under a man’s checked shirt

We talked of red roses
We talked of Sorrento
We parted agreeing
No further contact was best

She wrote of red roses
She wrote of Sorrento

She wrote of red roses
On a card from Sorrento

Without a return address.