Cinematography was boundless for me
I defied conventions of motion pictures
I went from Britain to the Adriatic Sea

The Ottoman and Balkan troops were hotspurs
I captured the war on a plate camera
Mr. Newman made it for my bold transfers

My Papa was General in Rumelia
Uncle and aunt were newspaper editors
I was a war reporter of my era

I was armed to shield myself from predators
It was not all fun and games, yet feats were swell
By chance I was brought to meet some prisoners

I also had my tripod smashed by a shell
In a Vlach town I improvised a dark room
Creating out of wool rugs a tiny cell

In Adrianople some locals would assume
I could cure cholera with my camera
But it was back home in England I would fume

When a projectionist made a disaster
He was incompetent during a lecture
I lost the case in Court to this wreck master

But joy came from the Fitzrovia Prefecture
The Scala Theatre showed my celluloid
The Arctic was next with my new conjecture

A healing colony I would have deployed
But in Spitsbergen I only hunted seals
And farmed reindeer before my dream was destroyed

The Great War arrived and firmly changed the deals
I got wounded as an ambulance worker
The Belgian Corps rewarded my ideals

I shaped my life like my toil as a sculptor
I could be Jessica Borthwick or Nell Foy
Plus I had a factory of dolls galore

Whitechapel Art Gallery showed my toy
In South Kensington pipe smoking was an art
While experimenting I was never coy

For the images on home screens I took part
Through the British Broadcasting Corporation
Showing Russian performers singing with heart.