Saturday Night, Yorkshire, 1960

Walking through the village jingling coins Anticipation rising, slight tingling in the loins Catch the bus to Hornsea for the weekly dance, Where if we’re lucky we might stand a chance Of experiencing a pair of soft female breasts Press lightly and gently up against our chests. A lovely heady sensation that just can’t last. I’m sure they make the music end too fast. Gosh don’t all the girls smell nice. Maybe one will dance with me twice. More than that, you’re going steady I’m too shy for that – just not ready. For the last waltz find a special girl For a slow smoochy fast ending swirl Then maybe just maybe meet her at the door And maybe just maybe see her a little more As you walk her home for that special bliss Of clutching her tightly in a fumbling kiss; Only one or two – very seldom any more Just in case her dad is standing by the door A possible final peck against the cheek And a maybe mumbled see you next week Romantically hoping she’ll watch out of sight As you wander off into the chilly night. Can’t afford a taxi, last bus long gone, Five to miles home, I’d better get on. Sure as Saturday night I’ll not be alone There’s always plenty others on the way home Plenty of laughter, bragging stories and talk Can make it a pleasant night ending walk. It was special living, sixties country days. At time progress throws wrong things away.