Victoria Station sees romance every morning,

A whistle is blown to give us a warning,

It’s the departure of the Continental boat express,

Loved ones depart with a caring caress.

When the fog returns with rain and driving sleet,

Every Londoner loathes London a little without heat,

I have lost count of the times a Pullman has whirled me through Kent,

To the edge of the sea, far off places to where I have been sent.

We all desend on the swift Channel boats,

All the blue-bloused porters, wearing thick coats,

So off we all set off across the cold sea,

Hoping to be in France in time for our tea.