(in memoriam John Betjeman, 1906-1984)
Go down to Brighton, darling,
with your sister or a chum,
I could use a weekend’s emptiness
for the twiddling of my thumbs.
Be my postcard down in Brighton,
and know that you’ll be missed.
I’ll not worry that you’re lonely,
I’ll not ask you who you kissed.
I hope that Brighton’s merry,
I do hope that Brighton’s loud,
I’ve never been a Jealous Joe,
should you drown in Brighton’s crowd.
So go along to Brighton,
for a stroll along the pier,
where the condoms float like jetsam
in a sea of English beer.
Take your swimsuit for the bathing,
take a frock for round the town,
I’ve no doubt some handsome lay-about
will offer you his crown.
I’ve been luckier than many,
as unlucky as the rest,
but home is where the heart is,
even when the heart’s a guest.
Go along to Brighton, sweetheart,
and try not to be peeved,
when the ocean splashes teardrops
on deceiver and deceived.