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On my motor bike I started out in 1952,
Now half-a-century’s almost passed and I am feeling blue.
I’ve reached the age of 69 with no blot on my name,
Now I have just received a fine, I hang my head in shame.
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I was on my way to the Riverside, to watch my favourite team,
And I didn’t see the hidden van with its invisible radar beam,
I know my journey wasn’t vital; I didn’t miss them kicking off,
But, for five miles only, I’d have thought that worth a ticking off.
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Five miles too fast was all it took to make the camera flash,
Then they played it by the book and demanded all my cash.
Perhaps I’ve been a little naughty, it was an oversight,
But wanting money – pounds times forty – means I can’t sleep at night.
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I’m not really one to shout, I do have bread well buttered,
But if for months I can’t eat out, I’ll be well and truly gutted.
I know how much they need my cheque, I’ve also heard a rumour,
But really they’ve made me a wreck; do they have no sense of humour?
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75 pence the government gave me, enough for a bag of nuts,
I know my efforts will not save me, but at least I had the guts.
Dick Turpin in the days gone by was not a man to talk,
“Stand and deliver” he would cry, ’til they hanged him high in York.
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In 2000 it’s not so awful, they only want your cash,
And how’d they know you’d been unlawful? ‘Twas the highly-dreaded flash.
Unlike Turpin, I’ll not hang, nor shall I face suspension,
But forty pounds is an awful lot to pay out of my pension.