In a dear little village,
Remote and obscure
A beautiful maiden resided.
As to whether or not
Her intentions were pure,
Opinions were sharply divided.
She loved to lie
Out 'neath the darkening sky,
And allow the night breeze
To entrance her,
She whispered her dreams
To the birds flying by
But seldom received any answer.
Over the field and along the lane
Gentle Alice would love to stray.
When it came to the end of the day,
She would wander away,
Unheeding.
Dreaming her innocent dreams she strode,
Quite unaffected by heat or cold,
Frequently freckled or soaked with rain,
Alice was out in the lane.
Who she met there
Every day
Was a question
Answered by none,
But she'd get there,
And she'd stay there,
'Til whatever she did
Was undoubtedly done.
Over the field and along the lane
Both her parents would call in vain,
Sadly, sorrowfully, they'd complain,
'Alice is at it again.'
Although that dear little village,
Surrounded by trees,
Had neither a school, nor a college,
Gentle Alice acquired
From the birds and the bees,
Some exceedingly practical knowledge.
The curious secrets that nature revealed,
She refused to allow to upset her,
But she thought,
When observing the beasts of the field,
That things might have been organised better.
Over the field and along the lane,
Gentle Alice would make up
And take up
Her stand.
The road was not exactly arterial,
But it led to a town nearby,
Where quite a lot of masculine material
Caught her rolling eye.
She was ready to hitchhike,
Cadillac or motorbike,
She wasn't proud or choosy.
All she
Was aiming to be
Was a pinked-up,
Minked-up,
Fly-by-night floozy.
When old Rogers
Gave her pearls as large as
Nuts on a chestnut tree,
All she'd say was
'Fiddle-di-dee!
The wages of sin will be the d**h of me!'
Over the field and along the lane,
Gentle Alice's parents
Would wait,
Hand in hand.
Her dear old white-headed mother,
Wistfully sipping champagne,
Said 'We've spoiled our child,
Spared the rod.
Open up the caviar and say "Thank God!"
We've got no cause to complain!
Alice is at it again!'