Blighty

The sweaterman is back, battling off wind and rain

with a pink umbrella. Came back from his Spain-vacation, 

wasn't feeling the paella. Only Blighty is for him, the English lawn. 

The grumling about weather. The lazy cat's yawn. 

He scoffs down his scones, cup of tea in hand. 

And prays for footballing glory - "c'mon Eng-a-land"! 

Raised his young boy alright, neat haircut, tidy shirt. 

Got decent GCSEs, he's out chasing skirt. 

Put his graft into his boat or his mine, his wife took his clothes

when he got back, covered in grime. 

A pint in the pub, and darts on the board,

a hometown hero, a gent, a Lord.