It’s three miles from Brighton to Portslade;
The Number Two bus will take me to Shoreham Beach.
I’d never have asked you to leave your wife,
I’d never have torn you from your son and daughter,
But if you’d asked me, I’d have given my life
To make you happy—I’d have relished self-slaughter.
When Mr. Barrington returned to work
He’d lost some weight—he was no longer stout.
When Gail went for her tea he didn’t lurk
In wait for her, as before. She felt put out.
Although the weather’s hot the land is level.
I couldn’t wait for her, she made me slow.
I cut her loose and I’ll outpace the devil—
There’s not much time, but I don’t have far to go.
It’s three miles from Brighton to Portslade;
The
Number Two bus will take me to Shoreham Beach.
