Words and music, Roger Coghill


“She’s been here a week” the shop girl told me,

“Sleeping on the pavement every night”.

“Moved on by the godless Cristianos.

Reckon mental problems caused her plight”.


“Never seen a tramp in Los Gigantes”.

Here the deep tan tourists have their fun

Driving rented cars from their apartments

To lie on local beaches in the sun.


“Have you got a cigarette?” she asked me.

“Sorry I don’t smoke them” I replied

Long blond hair bedraggled in the sunlight,

Dirty jeans, a blanket by her side.


Tourists driving on towards the sunset

Leaving the less lucky by the road,

Careless of the world of the demented

Not too keen at shouldering the load.


More and more the streets seem filled with madmen,

Crazy but as sane as you and me

Alzheimer and Parkinson suggested

They’re just folk who lost their memory.


“Have you got a cigarette?”, she begged me.

I guess her age could roughly be like mine.

English, with a trace of Norway.

“Sorry I don’t smoke them”, I replied.


No one wants to hear this song I’m singing;

All we’re here for is the sand and sea.

Comfortable times and beds of roses,

And what passes for reality.


Sunlight through the pinetrees by the ocean,

Moonlight dancing by a sandy shore,

Careful how you spend life’s short vacation.

Don’t want vagrants knocking at your door.


“Have you got a cigarette?” she asked me.

Sorry, I don’t smoke them” I replied.

Down the short street she wandered, round the corner.

Leaving her sadness swirling in my  mind.

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