Cinematography was boundless for meI defied conventions of motion picturesI went from Britain to the Adriatic Sea The Ottoman and Balkan troops were hotspursI captured the war on a plate cameraMr. Newman made it for my bold transfers My Papa was General in RumeliaUncle and aunt were newspaper editorsI was a war reporter of my era I was armed to shield myself from predatorsIt was not all fun and games, yet feats were swellBy chance I was brought to meet some prisoners I also had my tripod smashed by a shellIn a Vlach town I improvised a dark roomCreating out of wool rugs a tiny cell In Adrianople some locals would assumeI could cure cholera with my cameraBut it was back home in England I would fumeWhen a projectionist made a disasterHe was incompetent during a lectureI lost the case in Court to this wreck masterBut joy came from the Fitzrovia PrefectureThe Scala Theatre showed my celluloidThe Arctic was next with my new conjecture A healing colony I would have deployedBut in Spitsbergen I only hunted sealsAnd farmed reindeer before my dream was destroyed The Great War arrived and firmly changed the dealsI got wounded as an ambulance workerThe Belgian Corps rewarded my ideals I shaped my life like my toil as a sculptorI could be Jessica Borthwick or Nell FoyPlus I had a factory of dolls galore Whitechapel Art Gallery showed my toyIn South Kensington pipe smoking was an artWhile experimenting I was never coy For the images on home screens I took partThrough the British Broadcasting CorporationShowing Russian performers singing with heart.