Channel Tunnelling after Sue Morton
Some bright sparks said O Blighty!
a long long time ago
thanked icons of almighty
that they packed up to go
to France, pyjamas, nightie
silk, satin sporty show.
This gospel write rings rightly
as Western gringos know,
though ski resorts glow sprightly
with artificial snow.
For France the weekly hours
are thirty five at most
without the April showers
which reign on England's coast,
Law holidays empowers
six weeks with wine to toast,
some butter bread, some glowers
at others' flowered boast.
In Paris public transport
runs on from 5 to 3,
for poor we're never spoil-sport,
the cost is almost free,
and so one can but exhort
you holiday with me!
French sun is sold for export,
we import English tea.
Though strikes occur, they rarely
unjustified appear
they're faced and fairly squarely
are doomed to disappear
but governments are rarely
known to be quite sincere
proposing wages barely
as high and as tax free
as income providential
from oily Saudi flogs.
One difference essential
between the Brits and Frogs
the latter's high potential
for leaping out of fogs,
as queues are rare, torrential
rain's going to the dogs.
The French aren't good at queuing,
or praising pomp and power,
they far prefer pursuing
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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