Friday Night when the lights go down low.

At the old labour hall you were my dancing Queen. Many attractive young princesses of Newport and beyond came to the local hop. While the lads supped ale and danced with courage each and everyone enjoying the local friendly dance or maybe and little flirt. With ones bit of skirt. Ugly bugs by name is a relative term, Beautiful women once graced this hall of delight on a Friday night. Lovely gliding dancing queens dancing the night away on this spring wooden floor. Now all these halls of up the Memo and of village and labour clubs are long gone into a memory of our past. Vanished the many dance venue’s of this by gone age of ball room Dancing. Closed clubs and changing fashions and empty chairs and tables and no sweet smell of scented bodies or sound of gliding feet. Sounds Linger no more. Or the chatter have you told her you have a car.

Can I see you home.

Or how about going picking daffodils down the light house Road. The lines of age have now etched its marks on the pack hunters that stood at bar waiting and watching to join the hunt. Supping beer in abandonment of Dutch courage to join the Dancing swirling pack. Gone for ever those happy days and memories.Days and nights that will never return.