All those wasted years

ALL THOSE WASTED YEARS.

Did I ever tell you of a lovely girl called Sian
I met her when I went down to a meeting in Cwmbran
Her father was a vicar and her mother was a nurse
Her smartly dressed young brother drove the undertaker’s hearse.

She came to Aberystwyth where she gained a good degree
Her favourite occupation was composing verse with me
She wrote of epic battles, of the blitzkrieg and the panzers
And was always complimentary about my simple stanzas.

Sian’s mezzo voice was concert class, she also liked to dance
But nowhere in her being was a vestige of romance
Her figure was quite statuesque her dress sense was divine
And though I loved her dearly she never could be mine.

She said I was her closest friend and hoped we’d never part
But I could not communicate the feelings in my heart
Then one night at a concert by the Liverpool Symphonic
We held hands but I realised that our love was platonic.

But I was such an optimist I’d worshiped her for years
Her memory, after all this time, still stimulates my tears
Oh wasn’t I an innocent ? I found out that her taste
Was for the love of other girls

OH WHAT A BLOODY WASTE.

A.P-B.        1.5.14