Poem In Which A Station Announcer Says “Woking” In Sexy Voice
The town of Woking has been in the news lately. Does anyone remember a poem or recitation involving a female station announcer. I first heard it it the 1960s I think, perhaps read by Dora Bryan or another actress with a sexy voice. I found this elsewhere, and have corrected some of the spelling and grammar, but I’d like to know if there is a recording online.
The Siren Song.
When I was young the height of my ambition was to be a femme fatale.
I wanted to lead on men into positions,
Where they gladly offered me the Taj Mahal,
But, Alas, among life’s flurry and its hubbub,
My great ambitions seem to go astray,
And I’m working on a station in a suburb,
Announcing train arrivals everyday.
But still i think of what I’d be if I could have my choice,
But my frustrated sex appeal just creeps into my voice.
When I say “Woking, Woking, Woking”,
It's thoroughly provoking to the men that travel out from platform 2.
I just say this is Woking,
And the thought that i’m provoking,
Keep them panting till they get to Waterloo.
You know its more the way I say it, than actually the things I say,
They may be great big business men,
but in my hands they’re clay.
For city gents all faint when I say there's a slight delay.
They’re victims of the golden voice,
When I say “Woking, Woking”, stokers stop their stoking,
And lumps of coal drop from each nerveless hand.
I just say “have your seasons ready”,
And it makes them quite unsteady,
Can it be that they misunderstand -
(I) Remember once a bishop and graduate collegian.
They just caught my voice as they were passing through the southern region,
They were later found in Tunis,
Where they joined the foreign legion,
And they were victims of the golden voice.
When I say platform 4,
It means a great deal more and embarrasses the early morning rush.
And I make the 8.15 sound thoroughly obscene,
And when I say “alight for Bagshot”, well even porters blush.
When I say “Woking, Woking, Woking”,
Some brokers stop their broking,
And commercial travellers stop their little games.
I just say “This is Woking”, and in carriages (non) smoking,
They not only smoke but all bust into flames.
But the thought of course you sympathize with masculine frustration
I really cant encourage it, for there's a railway regulation,
Which frowns on all activity while standing in the station,
And so of course they have no choice,
They’re the victims of the golden voice.
“All change for Virginia water, Cockfosters, Fulking(?) and all connections to Maidenhead.” They’re the victims of the Golden Voice.