When I was young I lived in the Dingle,
a few doors up from that famous Ringo.
Little knew I the pathway to riches,
our old man cleared council ditches.
I remember when skiffle became all the rage,
our Mum just smacked us, said 'now act yer age'.
Told to be practical, told to behave,
I married a carpenter, a bloke with a trade.
Together we moved out closer to George,
a stylish wardrobe we soon had to forge.
Yes it were true, we'd never had it so good,
those sitar cases made nice firewood.
No time for singing like that Cilla Black,
it was wake up the kids, get 'em out of the sack.
Fish and chips were a regular deal,
mushy peas made it more of a meal.
There's lots of peas now in the old folks home,
there's peas for my breakfast, and peas in my poem.
Trapped in my bed I curl up all fetal,
and dream of my life if I'd married a Beatle.
If I'd married an artist, someone with panache,
I'd not mind if critics had a bit of a bash.
Another pain pill, another bed change,
I too could've been shot in some place strange.
But Macca's still rocking, I might see him soon,
perhaps he'll move in with that old Peter Noone.
I'd contemplate further, although I do hesitate,
as I threw my back out last time I did meditate.