Now to the beach, the cliffs, the coast
By unknown copses, farms and fields
That haze which loiters on the land
Seen from the sluggish traffic, yields
When pilgrims park and come to stand
Before the grail of sea and sand
Amazed to find on reaching here
That others had the same idea
We cook ourselves, saut our flesh
In oil -some boil, some bake, some fry
A few prefer to grill from fresh
Till overdone with hours slipped by
And calculations badly-made
In farenheit or centigrade
Flip-flop to feisty beachside bars
Along a blinding esplanade
Where noisy, clocking all the cars
Sit shirtless, shaven, Stella boys
St George on shorts or union jacks
To stem the sweat on tattooed backs
It may be August, hellish hot
But still we're British, are we not?
Such unexpected summer heat
Our transport system's paralysed
The suzerain has come, The Sun
We bow before him memerised
Throw open doors and sit outside
Abandon chores, let dinner slide
Unfasten windows dim the light
Lie naked in the shameless night
And listen to the drunken streets
Sleepless under single sheets