Her name was Lolita la Lota,
at least that was the name she preferred,
but it wasn't the name she was known by
most nights at the Old Feathered Bird.
She spent all her Saturdays drinking,
and Mondays to Fridays as well.
On Sundays she prayed for forgiveness,
and sank half a bottle of Bell's.
She loitered a lot in shop doorways
And made a few bob, to be fair.
She'd squander it all on a burger
or two, if she’d money to spare.
She always showed plenty of cleavage
and lowered much more than the tone.
Her arse, in a tight pair of leggings,
could black out the sun on its own.
She took an away day to London.
Fed hundreds of pigeons with bread.
She grinned with a childish contentment
till one of them shit on her head.
She said to a guard, "Hello soldier,"
and showed him the top of her thigh.
Despite all his efforts they sacked him
when he laughed and he laughed till he cried.
She wanted to go to a night club
but always got barred at the door,
until she pinned both of the bouncers
with her Zimmer- frame hard to the floor.
She swayed to and fro with the music.
The vodka and wine added zest.
The back-flip she tried failed badly.
She’d misjudged the size of her chest.
She landed on top of the D.J.
It very near cost him his life.
He was saved by a move of avoidance
he’d practised a lot with his wife.
Lolita got wedged in a gangway.
They moved her before night was done,
with a rope and two muscular barmen
and a crane from McAlpine and son.
She should have known better at fifty,
And taken up knitting a shawl.
But she wasn't about to retire.
She was having too much of a ball.
She died as she lived, lying prostrate.
A sight I will never forget.
A man in the queue said, "That's awful,
I haven't had my go yet.”
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