In a quiet corner of London

Behind St. Bartholomew Square

Just beyond the reaches of theatreland

Where the curious still come to peruse

You will find Curlington Mews

 

It’s now only rarely frequented

Is small and known to but few

Out of view, shrouded in shadows

Where the lamplight tends to diffuse

Is number 3 Curlington Mews

 

Its owner, she was quite a beauty

Courted by the royal, the rich and the rare

Who competed to be her companions,

Hangers on, who hoped to amuse

Or to love her, if they could but choose

 

The house stands quiet and dark now

Its windows all blackened with mould

Ivy has crept through the letter box

(Men no longer leave billet-doux)

From the inside there is no view

 

The front door would seem to be stuck fast

T’would be hard to prise open I’m sure

The air inside grown stale and musty

Dated, fine furniture, serves to bemuse

But you may venture within, should you choose

 

A garage leans on to the main house

Its contents in canvas obscured

A Jag XJ6 of indeterminate age

With bodywork fragile and loose

Now rotting from not being used

 

Some still talk of the scandal

The parties, the noise and the cars

That dreadful night in December

Before some began to accuse

A tragedy played out, to the sound of the blues

 

How the ambulance screeched in the darkness

As the crowds quickly melted away

Then a stretcher came out in the half-light

Its patient smelling of boose

A young woman with so much to lose

 

They did what they could to save her

But the overdose was too strong

A life snatched away in the dawn hours

The end to her body’s abuse

You may have heard it on the news

 

The pavements lined with old plane trees

And the mourners who stood side by side

Of the rich and famous there was not a sign

None had come to wish her adieux

Their friendship was not there to renew