FUND RAISER
It may have been a year after the end of world war two,
We were still short on rations but a lot more we could do,
A fund raiser for wounded men, injured by the war,
Restore the ancient buildings like they had been before.
The Mayor of our city came up with a really good plan,
A festival of music and dance, he was a great music fan,
He chose a bright and exciting, carefree, happy gypsy theme,
To honour rescued gypsies of Europe, all seemed to be keen.
The Theatre Royal said they’d give at least three days free,
All who wanted to participate gave willingly as could be,
It was to be a competition to choose the very best of all,
You should have seen how many dancers answered the call,
My full skirt was made of black-out curtains, now quite old,
Heavy and plentiful and enough material to really unfold,
Whiz out and be level with my waist as I went around,
But a real gypsy blouse could nowhere at all be found.
My gran had an old nighty all frilly and still quite white,
And with my full black skirt the picture was just right.
There were hundreds of dancers but I came through the round,
Music, Brahms Hungarian Dance Number Six to me was bound.
That music carried me far away to some warm gypsy camp,
I could see all the caravans each with their own oil lamp,
I saw their smiling eyes, heard clapping hands to every beat,
And I knew right at that moment I was given light gypsy feet.
On Saturday evening I had managed to make it to the last few,
For that Hungarian music had thrilled me through and through,
I stepped onto the stage and danced with my whole beating heart,
The standing cheers were deafening, at least I had done my part.
A gypsy in full dress resplendent came slowly onto the stage,
The final group waiting to hear what name was on that page,
“The young lady who has won has the blood of a true gypsy,”
The winners name on that page, believe it or not was ME.
(Millicent) Ann Margetson 7 June 2005