There was I only seven years old,
Fresh faced innocent and oh! so sweet,
With freckles on my cheeks
And pumps on my feet.

A Labrador was by my side,
A matador on my shorts,
I was happy, it was fun,
Playing with my sister on the tennis courts.

While in my caravan bedroom,
Reading comic books,
A knock came upon my door,
Shaking the curtain hooks.

My Mother came into the room,
Wearing a bikini top.
She looked me up and down a bit,
I asked if she would top.

She gently undid the connecting clasp,
Dropped her top to the floor.
Now I know what the neighbours mean,
When they call my Mother a whore.

She caressed her breasts in front of me,
She rubbed them to and fro.
I pleaded with her to stop,
I asked if she would go.

She continued doing dirty things,
With an evil grin on her face.
Now I recall this evil past,
I feel a complete disgrace.

Abused in a caravan, a caravan at Barmouth,
My Mother touched some parts she really, really shouldn't have.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002