Do ya? Do ya?

Do ya go down Deptford anymore?

Thinking back forty years

The summer of seventy two

Stalls on the High Street

A few Rock Steady sounds

Mooch down Douglas Street

For a glass of Sarsaparrila

On the steps of St Pauls

A couple short and tall

Both of them know

It’s the last throw

Throw of the dice

It’s the last throw

Of confetti and rice

The decked out Daimler waits

Girls look on through the gates

Flashbulbs pop then hit the floor

The priest is none too sure

Do ya go down Deptford anymore?

Do ya? Do ya?

Do ya go down Deptford anymore?

Three old drunken scrumpy boys

They stagger down Broadway

Head towards Carrington House

Someplace for their heads to lay

Young mudlarks splash in the Creek

Old Billy Bleach fights the law

Totters flog a bent antique

Lewisham boys try to score

Jamaican patties on a stall

Some cab drivers ride shotgun

Hippy trippers ten feet tall

Paddle in the Brookmill sun

Students are all fussy

There are no new builds

The Oxford Arms is buzzy

With tales from Crossfields

Do ya go down Deptford anymore?

Do ya? Do ya?

Do ya go down Deptford anymore?

Copyright: HarryRogers – 2/11/2012