Little Lucy was a hit on the South American
city of Guatemala’s shanty-town cabaret,
somersaulting across the stage singing,
‘I was raised in the shadow of Mount Montezuma,
and am proud to call myself by my native name,
Lucian Allamandas, the last remaining Guatemalan Apache Indian.’

‘As a girl,’ she declared to travelling musician Monty Bullingham,
whom she met when they shared a dense thorny bush,
hiding from baton-wielding police,
‘I was known as the Singing Socialist Thief, as I always sang The Red Flag –
after all it is the poor people’s anthem – before visiting the wealthy
Latin Quarter and leaving with a load of swag.’

But she left her wayward ways behind, when Monty enlisted her as a roadie,
with touring band Silvery Shannon, and this naive young woman had great
fun with this interesting fellow, who’d saved her from a life of crime.

But he left her for lead singer, famed accordionist Squeezebox Sharon,
when she cashed in on the environmental wave by having a
hit with the song Let’s Protect Galway Bay, sung to the tune of a traditional ballad.

Lucy coped with the heartache by busking in the market place, 
praying in the old Catholic church,
playing the charango and ukulele, belting out blues classic 
My Wife’s Left Me In The Lurch, So Why Am I So Sad?

But using her knowledge of South America’s remote mountains,
she was soon enjoying life as a mountain guide, leading wealthy Americans into the high peaks.

One morning, gathered in the foyer of the luxurious Hilton Hotel,
she addressed such a party, ‘You’ve engaged me to lead you into the hills,
where we’ll watch soaring eagles and mountain lions,
camp by silvery streams and bathe under the mighty Wicker Waterfall.

‘But if there’s is any lewdness in the dark retreats of the night –
oh, I know my English poetry, I’m particularly fond of that notorious lech Lord Byron
– if I see any of that behaviour, your lives will be forfeit,’
and here she looked at the loudest of the group, Walter Windblown-Whipflop,
‘yes, I know there’s no depravity to which you imperialists wouldn’t stoop.’

But high on the Falateu Plateau, Whipflop, who’d been fondling the
female bearers all through the trek, was now about to divert his attentions towards Lucy, 
when he was stopped by handsome New Yorker, Larry Lapitup.
Thus in one foolish night of passion she fell into his carefully-laid trap.

Alas, she soon learned that her lover was not a wealthy,
lustful American called Larry, but a cunning Cuban called Fadirous,
and headed that feared organisation, whispered among the slums of the barrios
– the Communist International, so called defenders of an oppressed people.

Trained in the art of subterfuge and sexual blackmail, she was soon under his control,
running guns to Castro on his island of Cuba, avoiding the US Navy in the Caribbean.

Having proved her espionage qualities she was sent to Las Vegas,
as a thorn in the side of capitalism, adopting the pseudonym
of leading artist Magdalena Montague,
basking in the success of her headline-grabbing art exhibition in Paris.

There this former slum girl attracted admiring glances,
saying, ‘Have a nice day’ and ‘Hey you’re all’.
However, CIA rookie field agent Ronald Roughitup
felt there was something about her that didn’t quite ring true.

Was it her exaggerated Texan drawl or playing that little guitar, the Charango,
even a neat right hook that sent an over-ardent fan bottom over what's it,
or her well-thumbed copy of Karl Marx’s Das Capital?

Using the skills gained in the CIA methods of seduction course,
he charmed his way to her hotel bedroom, playing the mummy’s boy to the hilt,
saying he was brought up according to Biblical teaching, and was a true innocent.

So when she invited him for a nightcap, not only was
he already dreaming of imminent copulation,
but also his subsequent rise through the agency,
as the guy who’d saved the country by his diligent intelligence work,

For he was none other than nervous Ron, a lowly field agent,
never trusted with an important mission, but always good for a laugh.

So he was deflated in more ways than one when the object of his lust
gave him a blanket and a Bible, and said, ‘You can sleep in the bath.’

With his head on a sponge, Ron cursed as he stubbed his toe on the faucet.
However his angry heart was soon subdued by a beautiful voice 
singing a mystical prayer in a strange tongue, which he included in an in-depth report.

But when it was dismissed as ‘romantic rubbish’, he felt low as a skunk,
and cursed his patronising boss, the pompous Colonel Bob Bilton-Blowit.

The next day Miss Montague was approached by a young woman, who asked her,
‘Hey, can you help me with a roll of the dice, as I’m new to this game of chance?’,
and she spent all day with this new friend who called herself called Prue short for Prudence
(even though she did appear a bit masculine).

That evening she and her new friend bonded, sleeping out under the stars,
and though a police patrol, alerted by Colonel Blowit to look for a wayward secret agent,
noticed Prue shaving behind some convenient cacti, they dismissed it as,
‘You get all sorts in Texas, it’s this new policy of the governor’s, he’s a progressive leftie’.

But, though happy away from the false, material world of Vegas,
Lucy noticed with alarm a strange attraction to this young person,
and wondered if she’d suddenly become, God forbid, a lesbian.

The next evening as she sang Bob Dylan’s I’ll Keep It With Mine,
Willie Nelson’s All The World’s A Circus and Scottish lament, Flowers Of The Forest,
Prue tipsily danced around a cactus, slipped and was pierced on her behind.

When Lucy offered to inspect the wound, Prue declared,
‘Oh, I’ll have to come clean, and when I take off my wig and filled-out bra,
you’ll see I’m actually a guy, and will recognise me as the chap you,
not so long ago, consigned to the bathroom,
and I know you’re not who you say you are.

But rather than being a sophisticated siren, you are Luciana Lamatandas,
the last remaining Guatemalan Apache Indian.’

When he got down on one knee, declaring, ‘I’m in love with you!’,
Lucy gasped, then asked, ‘Is that Ron speaking, or Prue?’

A year later after a series of events too complicated for this short report,
those extremists who’d used a young woman’s innocence for political gain,
along with the US militarists who’d cast her as the enemy incarnate,
heard she’d been offered a government amnesty, arranged through her lover,
an ex-government agent – in return for not spilling the beans on illegal CIA activity.

At a press conference to publicise Ron’s book,
Walking A Crooked Path – Confessions Of A Failed Spy,
everybody chuckled when Lucy described how she’d made her husband-to-be sleep in the bath.

She then announced that, instead of remaining sworn enemies of each other,
the pair had ‘buried the hatchet’, so to speak (Lucy fielding an actual one,
donated by her relatives in the greater tribe Apache).

And when right-wing TV host Laurence Miles McCracken invited Lucy on his show,
The Voice Of America, then accused her ‘Of seducing a naive young American,’
everyone gasped when the man himself, Ron, jumped onto the stage, shouting,
‘I swore an allegiance to a president who espouses an America-first policy,
but by doing so he’s leaving common humanity a good second.

‘So I left that life behind, when I donned a skirt and pretended to be a female, 
swinging my ass around the casino, just so I could fall in love with a former slum girl.

‘So together we issue a joint snub to those militarists in Washington,
with their greed-is-best economics, including a hatred of that cigar-smoking Fidel Castro,
and his revolutionaries with their evocation of Marx’s theory of dialectics.’

Then, Lucy put her arms around him, saying,
‘I’m tired of these big words, his dad wanted him to be a lawyer you know.
I think Ron’s trying to say, 'Marry me, Luciana Lamatandas,
the last remaining Guatemalan Apache Indian!’