Memories of Portsmouth and Southsea

People think that Portsmouth is just another historic naval city
(and let's not forget its charming associated seaside suburb, Southsea)
O'erlooking the Solent or whatever bit it is, the Channel, who cares,
Full of gaiety, full of happy-go-lucky sailors home on leave
Looking for a bit of AIDS-free nookie (they'll be lucky),
With HMS Victory, dear Horatio's flagship, open for viewing.
But there is another side to this home of the Royal Navy
Oh yes, I have experienced terrible things there
And I am bloody lucky to have survived intact to tell the tale.

It was many moons ago, and I was just a lad of eighteen,
Newly married to my first wife Jacqueline, a strapping seven foot bitch,
And I was small for my age (it was before I took the growth hormones)
Being little more than four foot six in my elevator heels.
There was a march by the local branch of the B.N.P.
Protesting against the presence of paediatricians
At the local charity hospital, the foolish shaven-headed chappies
Having innocently confused paediatrics with paedophilia, an easy mistake
In a vibrant and cultured university city where so few people
Have learned to read and write by the age of sixteen.

When they saw me with my wondrous kindly giant Jacqueline
They quite naturally jumped to the wrong conclusion
And tore her living limb from living limb (a nasty sight,
reminiscent of the dénouement of "Suddenly Last Summer"
by Tennessee Williams, the gay US author of controversial plays),
Thus leaving me a grieving midget widower.
Fortunately there was a mediocre football game
On that night in town so I could forget my sorrows in gales of laughter.
Dear God, Portsmouth and Southsea have seen the back of me, no probs.