Holidays

Now is the time when we rush to the sea,
The sand, the sun and the surf,
And there we can lie, just you and me
And everyone else on earth.

Or so it seems with the serried ranks
Of the nearly naked and red.
I suppose for the break I should really give thanks,
Though rather be home in my bed.

For there I can lie without sand in my eye
Nor blistering sunburned skin.
And instead of just ogling, my lady and I
Can get on with the business of sin.

Perhaps I'm unfair to the girls who are bronzed,
Who are beautiful, shapely and brown,
For although they may doze on the sand all day,
At night they go out on the town.

And there, if the stories we hear on the box,
Remotely refer to the truth,
It is clear that they all have a wonderful time.
That deplorable decadent youth.

But although they appear to have fun in their way,
That crude Bacchanalian band,
I would rather take off with my girl, as they say,
To the bush with my bird in the hand.


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