Freda


Words & Music: Jake Thackray

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I used to lead a tranquil life, unobtrusive and retired,
I used to do as I pleased, my little sky was blue and clear.
I used to eat my peas with my knife, I went to bed when I felt tired,
I flatulated at my ease, I changed my shirts twice a year.
Then one day a pussycat wandered into my flat,
and my existence hasn’t been the same.
A waif and a stray, I couldn’t turn her away,
so I kept her and I gave her a name, yay, yay, yay, yay…

I called her Freda, my Freda, sweet Freda.
Agreed that her breed would have caused a stampede at the cat show at Kensington…
She’d got no need for good breeding :
she’d quite enough pedigree for me.

Her gaze was melancholic and diffuse, her coat was lack-lustre and bare,
her whiskers sparse, her teeth were loose, her tail was never in the air.
I pandered to her every whim, I sang to her on my guitar,
I fed her cream and fish and gin, I took her to the cinema.
What sweet relief the day she ceased to be glum,
when she hoisted her tail on high,
and underneath she showed her cheeky little bum
like a little pink moon in the sky, ay, ay, ay, ay…

Oh Freda, sweet Freda, dear Freda,
my pretty, my kitty, my own little slap-happy Eros and Agape,
Freda, dear Freda, my Freda,
my darling, my cara, my paragon.

Those were the days of my joy, I thought such bliss could never change :
but it was not without alloy, my little puss became quite strange.
She started to fret and to brood, she used to smirk at my distress,
she used to spit in her food, she used to yawn at my caress.
And then one day, she went away,
and I know neither wither nor why -
but I’ve deduced that she was seduced
by some bleeder who gave Freda the eye, ay, ay, ay, ay…

I think some rotter has got her : oh what a
sly move, a manoeuvre, some free-wheeling git has got my little tit-bit.
I need her, my Freda : have you seen her ?
She’s dingy and thin with a ginger fringe.

It could be the man who brings the milk who’s stolen off my honey child :
his hands are smooth, his shirts are silk, he’s got a most unpleasant smile.
The gas man may have asked her to desert ; she may be in the postman’s sack ;
perhaps the dustbin man’s a flirt, perhaps a pussy maniac…
And I am wise to the man who brings the meat :
my butcher, he’s brutal and sly.
I’ll analyse everything that I eat :
my sweetheart may be part of a pie, ay, ay, ay, ay…

Some monster, Susie Wongster, has ponced her.
I’m sunk, for some skunk’s done a bunk, done a bee-line with my pretty feline…
A bleeder, some bleeder’s got Freda,
and Freda the bleeder’s got someone new. Is it you ?

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