The Beach

When I was a boy, and the world was fat,

I’d walk to school in a black velvet hat,

Which titfer was a source of great wonder – it

Made the girls want to see what I kept under it.

That hat to me was a source of pride,

A friend in a storm that was there by my side

And none of the girls whom I danced with and bedded

Would ever have said yes if I were bare-headed.

Other boys’ jealousy was soon to appear:

One fellow nicked it and began a career

As a travelling salesman on the isle of Mustique

And seduced ninety women in under a week.

Hatless, I worked in Halford’s for a while,

And met a young lady with a winning smile,

Who’d heard all about me from the girls at my school

And said, “I don’t do this thing as a rule

“But would you like to come round for a drink and a bite

“At my place, shall we say seven tonight?”

I turned up, excited, at her Mayfair flat

But she threw me out, saying: “Where’s your fucking hat?”

And now I sit with my head in my hands,

Staring alone across the level sands

At the boats with their hats that look like sails

As the wind draws my breath and the ocean inhales

The spirit of my hat, the essence of my topper,

For here I am, and I’ve come a cropper,

All for the love of the lovely Laura,

Whose pleasure I paid for with my fedora.

And I long for a snooze on the ocean bed,

Wondering what the fish will make of my head,

As the sinister seagulls surround me and scream:

“Death is the real thing, life is the dream!”

Drowning, I reverently take off my hat

(One bought for the occasion – I’m superstitious like that)

And prepare for the perfect parting of ways:

Pain is the memory of happier days.