The Beach
The only thing wrong with a trip to the beach
Is the fact that the sea's sometimes way out of reach;
With miles and miles of endless sand,
Just why we go there I don't understand.
It isn't as though it's a whole lotta fun,
When you're picking out sand from your toes and your bum;
Eating your 'cheese and grit' sandwiches too,
And fighting off kids 'til you're black and you're blue.
A nice caravan would be better by far,
With so much more room than an old Renault car;
But what can you do when that's all that you've got?
Nothing at all... no iota or jot.
(Written Aug 1994)
poem by John Carter Brown
Added by Poetry Lover
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