The Mittens Are Off Poem by Annie Jackson

Winter’s in the blue corner:
summer’s in the red.
The mittens are off –
Britain’s Got Talons –
the sun has done its Hatton
and got turned on its head.

We’ve spent months on stew and Strictly –
canned cheese for ostrich necks –
while banks of the Times, weekly
snacked on our blank cheques.
The diet’s well past tired
but it won’t be put to bed.

Now summer’s Centre Court,
its green shoots turned to ditch.
Might not have many pennies
but we’re stinking rich in filth.
The strawberry and cream brigade
are serenaded off the Cliff.
Last one to leave the stand
don’t forget to flick the switch.

We’ll get solar-powered smiles
while June mucks up behind closed doors.
November’s tongue was long in cheek –
it knows it never rains, it pours.
From wintertime’s sweet Coraline
to warmer months where fans are sold:
if winter’s like Neil Diamond
then summer’s Ashley Cole.