Memories of Frinton-on-Sea on the Essex Coast

Ah how the mind boggles at the very mention
Of that bourgeoisely beauteous Essex coastal township!
How a tear comes readily to this author's eyes
Causing his manly mascara to run red raw
At the tragic memories which come to his mind.
Where to begin? Oh bright heavens hear my poor plea!

Oft times of yore did I go to Frinton-on-sea
To stay in genteel splendour in her fine hotels:
The Frinton Lodge with its baronial panelled halls,
The Grand with its marginally smelly gents' toilets
And one or two other ones into which I crept
In order to slip eight plus inches to a lady

But so many years had passed until I returned
With a rather fat German girl called Simone,
(with whom I intended a huge copulation)
And we finally found Frinton's only public house
Where I purchased her a triple strength G&T
To ease the dropping of her Teutonic knickers.
How ardently I loved the big boil on her nose
(not that I envisaged seeing it much that night
since her fat face would be buried in a pillow
as I poked her butchly doggy-style from behind).

But this gay sexual fantasy was not to be:
Simone traipsed o'er to the bright-shining jukey
And shoved on her bizarre choice - something so sugary
That the regulars (both well into their eighties)
Were driven into spasms of senile madness:
Yes, the silly tart chose Les Paul and Mary Ford
Warbling out "The World is Waiting for the Sunrise"
And "How High the Moon", a saccharine-soaked double-bill.

Those two old Frintonians were so horrified
That they ripped my dear plump Simone's head right off
And shoved it brusquely down the pub's cracked toilet bowl
Before I had time to rush out and drive safely off.
As I motored away down the broad Esplanade
I hummed sadly to myself "Vaya Con Dios,
Vaya con Dios, my dearest little dead Kraut".
And to think that dear Frinton-on-Sea used to be
Really quite a select town with a touch of class,
Although I hear the thatched seafront toilets can get
Quite lively of a Saturday night in August.