Well, she can sing a bit, you know. She sings as she walks. She's been all over everywhere, singing all the way. She's so easy on the ear and she's magical on the eye. It comes from being a lovely baby and growing up into a lovely girl. There are people who can't find anything right with the world. We'd have photographed her in it if she'd had it with her.
Well, it was like this. Joy hung it out to dry and a wind blew up and carried it away, both top and bottom. It landed at the feet of a young man emerging from a chemist's shop with headache pills. He'd had a headache ever since his last disagreement with his girlfriend Rosie. Rosie had used a croquet mallet. He thought the bikini was a gift from the gods and that Rosie would be enchanted with it. But it was an itsy-bitsy bikini and Rosie was by no means an itsy-bitsy girl, and all the time she was in it she kept falling out of it.
It was ever so embarrassing. To stay in it and to look unrivalled, a girl needs the same vitalistics as Joy. If a beautiful girl like Kim has to take an enforced rest, Piccadilly Circus is just not the place.
But this is. An ice-cream man came up and tried to sell her a lolly, and a guy driving a furniture van stopped to ask her the time. A young man on a bicycle offered her a meat sandwich and an old man on a horse offered her a lift. Everything was lovely and sunny and calm. Talk about wet. Dress, stockings and legs. Lili muttered French words she never realised she knew, especially as she's a Bavarian. Still, it was a French tide somewhere near St. Malo and it made her so wet that Lili sat resignedly down in it.
She turned into a lovely young soak, like. Wet all over she was in the end. French blokes ventured near, asking her if she needed a towel, and Lili threw wet sand at them. Gamesmanship, as all you sporty fiends know, is the art of making sure the other feller keeps to the rules while you elasticate them.
