Young Fred Reece
Writing home from Nice
To his dear old mum in Parsons Green
Not one word had his mother heard
From her darling son of seventeen

Since he went away
On a holiday
Camping with the local boys brigade
Now at long last a letter
After one whole year a letter
Scribbled out on hotel paper
Perfumed sprayed.

Said Freddy
Dear Mum, your son has become a gigolo
Dear Mum, I'm leading a lordly life
You should see me on a plasha
With me mate the Maharajah
And I date the Maharahani, that's his wife

Mum, tell pop there's plent of opportunities
For any strong enterprising lad
There's a fortune to be made here
If you understand the trade dear
And I'm having the best of all there is to be had

There's Lady Strad, with her silver clad
Fridays I'm her chauffeur for the day
Mrs. X, sends me weekly cheques
Likes to have her breakfast on a tray
And who would ever guess, me friend the Baroness
Has just turned sixty four this august gone

Now you'd never guess it never
We get on so well together
Though it's true I have to do the getting on
Well she's a bit deaf you sea

Dear Mum I had to become a gigolo
I didn't reckon the boys brigade
So I hopped it down to Menton
When I saw the things that went on
Then irealised that's where me future laid

And now I the rage of the rivierea
I drive the other contenders made
Every other handsome garcon
Might as well just move and pass on
For I'm having the best of all there is to be had

To be had

Give my regards to them all in Parsons green
Life there was a trifle dull
You can tell 'em that your Fred's out on a good job
Testing beds out

You can tell 'em your son is making it big
For none of the neighbours ever will dig
Your son is a gigo gigolo!

Tat ha!

