Now that she's the queen, the Aphrodite of the socialite magazines,
Though her photo's à la mode, we knew her before down the Kirkstall Road.
Those jewelled arms and neck that taste of Chanel... well...
When they were none so white, all Kirkstall knew them well.
It's marron glacé suppers now, and Liebfraumilch before bed:
Bye-bye, chips and cocoa, good-bye, jam and bread.
Now she's a big-time girl, bold as brass in the high-class social world,
She has worked at her Kirkstall style: now she's got a Rolls-Royce voice and an E-type smile.
Pond Street flat now, and small, fat men with cigars, cigars:
No more scabby boozers, only cocktail bars.
Languid postures with an Irish wolfhound as décor... cor...
No more manky mongrels sniff round her back door.
No more lamp-post deals, no more rendezvouses down the rhubarb fields,
No more grind by the old canal, no more of your back yard Bacchanales.
Spring collections on her back and a moue on her lips, her lips, her lips... ooh:
When she was coarse and saucy, at least she got her kicks.
And if her smile be snooty and her eyes be blasé, well,
At the Mecca Locarno they could flash more enthusiastically.
Chic boutiquey clothes, with her brand-new hair and a brand-new nose:
Though she daubed herself with woad, we'd still know that bird down the Kirkstall Road.
There's lots as good as her down the Kirky Road.
But they don't go away... thank The Lord they stay...
They're better off any way down the Kirkstall Road.