Isobel makes love upon national monuments
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all.
Isobel's done Stonehenge and the Houses of Parliament,
But so far little Isobel's never played the Albert Hall.
Many a monolith has seen Isobel,
Her bright hair in turmoil, her breasts' surging swell.
But unhappy Albert, so far denied
The bright sight of Isobel getting into her stride.
The Forth Bridge, The Cenotaph, Balmoral and Wembley.
The British Museum and the House of Lords.
So many ticks in her National Trust catalogue,
But so far the Royal Albert Hall has not scored.
Countless cathedrals can now proudly show
Where Isobel's white shoulder blades have briefly reposed.
Miserable Albert, still waiting for
The imprint of Isobel on his parquet floor.
In Westminster Abbey she lay upon a cold tombstone,
The meat in a sandwich of monumental love,
With old po-faced Wordsworth unblinking beneath
And a bright-eyed young Arch-Deacon breathless above.
Many a stony faced statue has flickered its eyes
And swayed to the rhythm of her little panting cries.
But oh! wretched Albert never yet has known
Isobel's pretty whinnying echo round his dome.
On the last night of the Promenades she waved to the conductor
And there and then on the podium, with scarcely a pause,
With a smile and a bow and a loud "Rule Britannia!"
He completed her collection to enormous applause.
Rapturous Albert now knows full well
He's captured forever elusive Isobel.
Prettily dishevelled but firmly installed
And faithfully for evermore to the Royal Albert Hall.
No more frantic scramblings up the dome of St. Pauls.
No more dank rambles on Hadrian's Wall.
With style and enthusiasm and anyone at all,
Isobel makes love in the Royal Albert Hall.