The Beach Poem by John Carter Brown

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)