The Road to Skegness

The Champions League semi*, we find on telly

In a pub they call the Maid’s Head

The adrenaline rush, or an extra fruit crush

Leads to a troubled night in bed

Regrets are redundant, the mayflower’s abundant

And the air is fresh, clear and dry

We soon stop on the way for an aerial display

Two Typhoons play in the sky

In a couple of winks we cross into Lincs

Over coffee a strange realisation

We’re 15 from Boston and 20 from Lynn

But how far from civilisation?

The wagons careen on the A17

And by Fosdyke we’re sick of the flak

We don’t think twice over local advice

And switch to a country track

We wind through the crops with plenty of stops

The smooth quiet lanes are a maze

We zing through Kirton and sing in Frampton

I want you to show me the way

From Peter’s skilled mouth, electronics piped out

Tunes of weirdness and purity

When his teeth worked loose he had to choose

Between dentures and musical obscurity

We skirt round Boston, from hunger not exhaustion,

And I think lunch will soon fix all

But my routing goes mad and I feel kinda sad

‘Twas like a day going round and round Whixall.

Google Sites

Report abuse