THE WELL HOUSE POEM.



Her Legs were long,
And shapely like,
And I did not know what to do,
With My Male Self,
For She was blowsy ,
Filling the air with Song,
Just as the Pianist was seen in the corner!
Tickling the Ivories,
Going up and  down,
Up  and down,
For Husbands, The Maid, She had none,
But Men, they  were always a-plenty,
As She wiped Her Glasses,
Working the Bar,
Serving Her Pints,
And Filling the Optics,
Of those She knew,
Staining the Tables,
Of  the smoke clad Bar,
Of Poor old Magdalene Street.