The Dockyard WifeA Poem by David Lewis PagetHe sat in the Bell & Lantern with His pipe and with his beer, The streets were wet on a misty night With the pub, the only cheer, He’d only married the month before To a girl, not half his age, And laid it out like a written law, ‘You must make a living wage.’ He said that he’d been disabled by A burst of cannon shot, Unleashed by one of the Frenchmen On his sloop, ‘The Camelot’ He said that he’d done his duty by His country and the King, So she would have to support them both By doing anything. She wondered what he had meant at first But soon was disabused, When he ripped open her bodice, saying ‘What you’ve got, you’ll use. There’s sailors down at the docks each night Who’ve been at sea too long, They’ll pay for a bit of comfort, girl, I want you to be strong.’ He chose the most of her wardrobe and He threw away her drawers, He said, ‘Whenever you greet one, you say, ‘What is mine, is yours.’ He chose a long cotton dress, he said Was much more like a shift, ‘You have to be more than available, It’s easier to lift.’ He wouldn’t be moved by the tears she shed, How much she would implore, His eyes were hard as her feelings bled, His word would be the law, He sent her out as the moon rose up With its faint reflected light, ‘Make sure you bring all the money back When you’re finished for the night.’ She wandered along dark alleyways And she saw their shadow shapes, Standing by darkened buildings, some With caps and some with capes, Their eyes would follow her down the lanes Until just one would shout, ‘Now there’s the prettiest dolly bird, What are you doing out?’ She’d soon get used to the smell of them, Tobacco, gin and beer, They'd come in close for a feel of her, She’d try to hide her fear, They’d ask how much for a little touch She would say a shilling down, If they were more of a gentleman She would ask for half a crown. Most of them took her standing up With her dress up to her waist, Or bent her over a barrel, it Depended all on taste, She’d work right through to the midnight hour It depended on the trade, He’d ask in the Bell & Lantern just How often she’d been laid. A good night, often she’d bring a pound That he’d put down on the bar, And pay for a round of drinks for mates And for her, a pot or jar, She’d blush and sit in the corner while They’d leer and peer and joke, The bolder ones would approach him, ask ‘How much for a friendly poke?’ He’d say, ‘She’s my little money box, It will cost you half a quid, But you must be nice, she’s sugar and spice And she’ll tell me what you did.’ Then one might lay his money down, say I’m feeling like a ride, While he would laugh at his other half, ‘You can take the girl outside.’ One night when out on the dockyard she Looked bleakly up at the stars, And saw the Moon through the mist and gloom Sitting right next to Mars, So back at the Bell & Lantern she Picked up and shattered a glass, Lunged up, and thrust it into his face, With Mars in her eyes, at last. David Lewis Paget
© 2017 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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