‘I begged you not to go to the lake
For I knew that he’d be there,
Whenever we’d go to the lake before
He would come out, sit and stare,
He lived in a cabin, made of wood,
Was a woodsman, through and through,
But the hairs rose up on the back of my neck
Each time that he stared at you.’

‘You wore that little bikini top
And the g-string pulled up tight,
I said that you’d catch your death out there,
It was cold, and nearly night,
But I saw you bridle at every glance
As he sat on his porch out there,
Then you swayed on down to the waters edge:
‘To get a fresh breath of air.’’

‘If only you could have seen yourself,
You looked like a sad man’s dream,
While he would twitch on his garden seat
Like a cat that had choked on cream.
I’d call you in, but you wouldn’t come
Though I’d watch through the window pane,
And you would titter, and he would laugh
As you wiggled his way again.’

‘What makes you fall for these burly men,
Could it be that they’re so uncouth?
Their manners say they haven’t a brain
So could it be faded youth?
You’ll never be twenty-one again,
Nor even remember when,
And if they knew what you’d want to do
They’d hide in the fields and fen.’

‘I begged you not to go to the lake
I can’t trust you on your own,
The police have got your description now
We’ll have to be moving home.
His jugular was punctured they said,
There wasn’t a drop in his veins,
And yes, you’re ten years younger again
But a hundred and ten remains!’

David Lewis Paget