Sunday BestA Poem by David Lewis Paget‘We
haven’t the money for bread, my love, We
haven’t the money for tea, You’d
best get dressed in your Sunday best And
go down to the docks for me. There’s
plenty of sailors round the town Who
have just come in from the sea, They’ll
spare five shillings a head, my love, You
only need two or three.’ So
Rosalie went to the old wood chest, To
change, as she always did, Slipped
off her shabby old cotton dress And
shook, as she lifted the lid, Her
muslin dress was a shade of grey That
had come third hand from a sale, Next
to a whale-bone corset that Laced
up, made her face go pale. They’d
only been married the year before When
he’d sworn he would care for her, But
most of his money had gone on drink And
the Dollymops at the fair, He
never had kept enough for the rent When
the landlord came, to pay, ‘It’s
time that we used what assets we have…’ He’d
grinned, in that crooked way. ‘Make
sure that you pull your bodice down,’ He
said as he tightened her stays, ‘You
need to be showing some cleavage, but Make
sure that the blighter pays! Just
leave your drawers on the bedroom floor You’ll
not be needing them there, The
quicker they’re in and out, my love, The
less that you’ll have to bare.’ They
walked together along the street, He
to the Wayside Inn, While
she went on to the alleyways That
were always so dark and grim, He’d
wait for her ‘til she’d done the deed Then
she’d meet him back at the bar, And
hand whatever she’d earned out there In
the clutch of many a tar. She’d
steel herself and would go quite numb At
the thought of those clumsy hands, The
leering faces, the coarse remarks For
the rent, and a pot of jam. The
other women would glower at her If
she pitched too close to their stall, Was
pushed in alcoves and spread on bins And
stood, her back to the wall. She
would have left, but her folks were dead So
there wasn’t a place to go, And
he would have thrown her out in the street If
ever she’d whispered ‘No!’ London
was full of the fallen ones Who
were shunned, as she would be, For
only a Madam would let her in To
be used, continually. Her
husband sat at the Wayside bar ‘Til
it closed, and bundled him out, With
still no sign of his Rosalie He
was mad, and grim at the mouth. He
headed down to the alleyway When
he saw the bobbies there, They
were standing over a pile of rags And
a tangle of auburn hair. ‘You
can’t come on, there’s a murder done,’ Said
the sergeant, raising his hand, A
croak came up from the pile of rags, ‘Oh
dear, that’s my old man!’ She
stirred and murmured before she died Sunk
deep in a bleak distress, ‘Oh
John, I’m sorry, the sailor lied, And
the blood has ruined my dress!’ David
Lewis Paget © 2013 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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