|
John Lee, your headache's growing, the cold wind's blowing |
|
But the sea's without a ripple |
|
John Lee, your forehead's damp, your muscles cramp |
|
And the sea can't use a cripple |
|
(Chorus) |
|
John Lee, you're turning around your plate again |
|
Oh, John Lee |
|
John Lee, you're turning around your plate again |
|
Oh, John Lee |
|
John Lee's been made a freeman, his heart's a seaman |
|
But his flesh won't make a sailor |
|
Working in a big hotel, waiting for the bell |
|
That's ringing for his labour |
|
(Chorus) |
|
John Lee, your chances are good, you better touch wood |
|
We think things must get better |
|
John Lee, you've a friend so true, she wants to help you |
|
Miss Keyes has sent a letter |
|
(Chorus) |
|
"Dear John, come and work the Glen, just write me when |
|
And I'll send someone to meet you" |
|
John's gone to where he started from, he's not worked long, just beginning to belong |
|
"It hasn't been a very good day, the missus wants to halve my pay |
|
Close the door and douse the light, it's quiet at night when she's tucked in tight |
|
Sometimes I feel, when they're all in bed, it's almost like the whole world's dead |
|
So I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee Lord my soul to keep" |
|
(Chorus) |
|
(Chorus) |
|
"The customary quiet of Babbacombe, a residential suburb of |
|
Torquay, was greatly disturbed early on Saturday morning |
|
an |
|
d the peaceful inhabitants roused to a state of intense |
|
alarm and terror by one of the most frightful tragedies |
|
that human devilment could plan or human fiend could perpe- |
|
trate. The name of the victim was Miss Emma Anne Whitehead |
|
Keyes, an elder |
|
ly lady of some sixty-eight years. The name |
|
of her home, the scene of her tragedy, was 'The Glen'. She |
|
was found early in the morning, lying on her dining room |
|
floor. Her throat had been horribly cut and there were three |
|
wounds on her head. It |
|
was evident that her murderer had also |
|
attempted to burn the corpse." |
