Collected Poems
My Pretty Maid
My Pretty Maid
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
Better get cracking, for rose cheeks fade.
We'll go for a trip to the Cape of Good Hope.
Jot down pyjamas, binoculars, soap.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
We've letters to answer and bills to be paid.
Your mother was young and your father was bold,
you'll never have patience to grow to be old.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
You can put on your duds for the fashion parade.
We're going to squat on the Great South Pole
with an album of Bach and a scuttle of coal.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
There won't be room for us both, I'm afraid.
Your feet will be cold if you stand in the snow,
so kick up your heels as you did long ago.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
We've loved at a hundred and ten in the shade.
There isn't a mountain we haven't climbed up.
I don't like the sediment left in the cup.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
We haven't a racket, vocation or trade.
The summer is lapsing, and nothing to show,
we've nothing to talk of, and nowhere to go.
Where are we going to, my pretty maid?
There's thunder and lightning, but don't be afraid.
A lover should stay in the arms of his lass,
so shut all the windows and turn on the gas.