Oh, whoa whoa whoa!
The ho ho ho,
Of last Xmas
The bitter snow,
The frost,
All that money lost
In market compost!
I dream of a farm,
Somewhere warm,
With olive groves,
And tomato bread
with garlic cloves.
A hacienda tickled in sea breeze,
The afternoon under shaded trees.
I walk through terraces of vines,
Ancient earth tilled
under clear blue skies
By the fingers of sleeping Gods,
And dancing Señoritas.
Instead.
Back in the real world to dread…
Fickle politicians
And plebs.
Imperfections.
And infections.
A cough like an ape,
and work too late.
Gentlemen!
Fight back
Against the inevitable heart attack!
Less port and oyster,
Slow gin and bitter.
Shoot and fish,
Climb the Hindu Kish
And ride across Spain;
Ignore the rain.
Pass me my pick, George.
There are mountains to climb –
Not for us to whine.
They smile and walk on
towards the mist.
– Unknown Sherpa
George Ingle-Finch
