I thought I’d write a verse, my dear, explain just why you’d like it here.
This beach is one I know you’d like. It’s shingle, mainly. Still, its nice.
An ice cream stall squats near the pier, but you can’t get rum and raisin here.
Cracked steps lead wobbly to the beach, with deckchairs stacked just out of reach.
I know you’d love the irony, you’d lap it up quite happily.
Perversely, too, you’d love the beach. It’s wide, with sea just out of reach.
And the ocean’s also not much cop, just toxic bubbling, grey-green pop.
The rockpool’s bleak, with not a sign, of life, apart from mirrored mine.
Escape to town is harder still. The path back is a long, steep hill.
And back in town, there’s just one caffie, one that’s dirty, bleak and scruffy!
I’ve been here lots without you, dear. You never wanted to come near.
But, can you see just why I claim. You’ll like it here, you’d lay no blame.
You’d get such a chance to moan. Complain and threaten to go home.
Then once back home you’ll tell our friends, you wished our break would never end.
So here’s my little verse, my dear, I really think you’ll like it here.
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