Back in the swinging sixties at Cawsand near Torpoint
My mother and a kitchen porter walked and shared a joint
The night was young the moon was gold if Mum's to be believed
They lay down in a sand dune and their daughter was conceived
In September they closed down that hotel by the sea
The kitchen porter went to Keele to finish his degree
He never thought of me
Now in the town my name they all forget - oh
They say, "That there's that bird of Johnny Petto".

The kindest thing they ever called my mother was "a flirt"
Men lusted for her body and despised her mini skirt
Our cottage was not heated - the bathroom was not tiled
My teachers said that I grew up a hard and wayward child
And I was just sixteen when I first ran away
To see the sights of London and to watch the Pistols play
I won't forget that day
I crashed down on the floor in some dank ghetto
And recognised the face of Johnny Petto

He didn't wear a jacket - he looked a little drunk
His T-shirt was all torn he said because he was a punk
He said he'd often seen me - but always acted cool
Because I'd been a year or two behind him back at school
He tried to talk all Cockney - the sound it made we wince
But when we were alone his soft voice would make sense
His eyes were so intense
He said you've got to grab what you can get oh
So why not see the world with Johnny Petto?

We both sold advertising for six month magazines
We slept where damp was rising - ate toast and cold baked beans
We saw the Clash in Croydon - and Aswad and the Jam
And when we'd seen it all we took a boat to Amsterdam
We hung around the station in the February rain
We got an invitation to work in Amstelveen
I won't go there again
We scrubbed the hotel floors - eight hundred netto
I ate and slept and sweat with Johnny Petto

The manager we trusted employed on the black
So when the place got busted it was us up on the rack
They put stamps on our passports and sent us on our way
And said we'd better be out of their country in a day
We hitched a ride going Eastwards and ended in Cologne
Dirty, tired and hungry - like a dog without a bone
We slept outside the Dom
I stole a beer and cadged a cigarette Oh
And in the dark I clung to Johnny Petto

We hitched down to the South of France to find work picking grapes
We spoke no French and dressed like punks - they treated us like apes
And down in sunny Spain the police beat Johnny black and blue
"Nothing personal," they said, "Just nothing else to do".
Poor Johnny's nose was broken and bleeding for a week
They charged him with assault and hauled him up before the beak
The judge called him a freak
He said he'd let him off for some Peseto
For the crime of being a punk and Johnny Petto

A Spanish family took us in up in the Pyrenees
They fed us and gave us a bath when we were full of fleas
We hitched up to a coastal port and tried to find a boat
We stole from supermarkets and we begged to keep afloat
When I told him I was pregnant Johnny turned and did a bunk
He fled off up to Duesseldorf and started doing junk
He left me in a funk
He left me with a foetus and stiletto
And that's the last I saw of Johnny Petto

My name is Lucy Craddock -the baby's doing well
Our flat is near the paddock by the Old Tide's Reach Hotel
And when I go out walking with the baby pressed so near
The men are always talking loud enough to overhear
They whistle at my legs - they all stare at my breasts
They mutter I'm the dregs, a scrubber and a pest
They all think they know best
If I had my time again I'd not regret - no
I'd be damned and lived in Hell with Johnny Petto