From the time that Alison woke she knew
That she had to speak her lines,
It was part of some strange assignment that
Had lodged, deep in her mind,
And every day had begun like this
From as far back as the Prom,
For every day was a part to play
Though she didn’t know where from.

Her lines appeared in her deepest sleep,  
Were as glue upon her page,
She wasn’t allowed to deviate
Protest, or express her rage,
She’d go to Milady’s ballroom all
Dressed up with bustle and flare,
Plastered with ancient make-up and
A Pompadour in her hair.

And Alan, down off the ballroom he
Would finish his last cigar,
Straighten his wig and tails and take
His boots on into the bar,
A tumbler there of Cognac he’d
Toss back, then head for the ball,
Looking to share his heart out there
With the fairest one of them all.

He’d met her before on other nights,
She’d hidden behind her fan,
Her lashes were long and fluttered then
As he tried to hold her hand,
But she had proved to be skittish, she
Would lead him along, then stay,
And disappear in the dancers there
As she struggled to get away.

But Alan was more determined now,
He pinned her against the wall,
Caught the scent of her heaving breath,
‘Don’t you care for me, at all?’
She’d hesitate as those hated lines
Once more came into her head,
‘Oh my, this maiden is blushing, sir,
My cheeks are burning red.’

He led her towards an ante-room
For a long desired embrace,
But he couldn’t see behind the fan
The anguish on her face,
She wanted to live and love, she thought
She wanted to cry aloud,
But all that her script would let her do
Was gravitate to the crowd.

And Alan was so frustrated,
He thought that he’d never score,
For Alison seemed to disappear
As he opened the bedroom door,
And she stood out in the coffee room
With amazement on her face,
Where had he gone, she’d closed her eyes
To wait for his sweet embrace?

Alan tore off his tie and wig
And he hurled them to the floor,
Why did she always disappear
Just there, at the bedroom door?
He flung about, and he just went out
With his face so set and pale,
‘I’ll not be staying a moment more
In a Barbara Cartland tale.’

He had wondered where his speech came from
It had seemed so stiff and trite,
Embedded into his head, it seemed
When he was asleep at night,
He jumped on into a cab outside
In a vain attempt to flee,
When Alison ran beside him then
And cried, ‘Hey, wait for me!’

David Lewis Paget