British passport – what a prize!
It’s your birthright, lucky guys,
But, to aliens such as me,
It’s as precious as can be,
So I greatly cherish mine,
Which does make me feel so fine
(More so as I am quite skittish),
I’m thus loving being British;
This is why I, with great pride,
Share my status far and wide
Half-expecting a huge cheer;
Enter Ian*, who’d appear
On my walks from time to time
Undertaking the odd climb
(You remember? He’s the guy
Who has rubbished my mince pie);
Ian, hearing me thus boast,
Looked as if he’d seen a ghost:
“British passport? You?? How come???”
What a bummer – and then some:
His demeanour was so shocked
That my world just shook and rocked;
How much more of toil, sweat, grit
Till they see me as a Brit????
*I am very fond of Ian, by the way. He has a fabulous sense of humour and is great fun to be around. Although we tease each other, it’s all done in a friendly and playful manner. I’m saying this because he thought he had offended me by his incredulity; in fact, I found his reaction absolutely hilarious. No hard feelings, Ian, I hope.
Recently, we’ve been hit by an icy blast from Siberia, dubbed the Beast from the East. This is my humorous take on it.
We’ve been blasted by the Beast,
Blown straight over from the East;
Fed by northern polar vortex,
It would slice right through your cortex,
Landing an almighty blow
With its gales and frost and snow,
Blizzards, whiteouts, drifts and ice;
And there was, indeed, a price
If you tried to brave this storm:
You could not stay dry or warm.
So to end up safe and sound,
You wrapped up and went to ground,
Keeping all essentials handy,
Namely whiskey, rum and brandy;
Soon, your innards were ablaze,
With you swaying in a haze,
Feeling comfy, snug and cosy,
Both your cheeks and nose quite rosy;
This is how (you get my drift?)
Best to deal with Putin’s ‘gift’.