They’ve been doing up our village hall
You’d think you were in heaven,
It’s not been touched since it was built
In nineteen hundred and seven.
The walls were originally a nice pale cream
But even when washed down
With all the cigarettes that had been smoked
They’d turned a nicotine brown.
The curtains had been given in thirty two
By Lady Jennifer Blore
At the time they were the height of fashion
Very art décor.
They’d faded in the sunlight’s beams
To a very odd shade of puce
It looked as though they had been dipped
In plum and apple juice.
The floor was like a rugby pitch
With gouges here and there,
It was often very difficult
To sit straight upon a chair.
Over the loos we’ll draw a veil
They really were not nice,
If you were desperate to use them
You’d be in and out in a trice.
But oh, what magic has been worked
You really should see it gleam,
New doors and staging, brand new floor,
Talk about a dream.
The windows now close, the draughts have gone,
The paintwork’s a pretty green,
The lilac tiles in the ladies’ loo,
Would not disgrace the queen.
It didn’t happen all by itself
But once the seed was sown,
A committee was formed, and funds were raised,
A marathon on its own.
So many people have been involved,
It’s difficult to know where to start
To thank them all, but that we do
From the bottom of our hearts.