Stepping off the plane from the sun,
Teeth chattering away,
The lad in front exclaims a wild pun,
Wishing secretly we could stay.
From hot desert to freezing blighty,
Forever in winters chill,
The difference is not felt lightly,
Warm up! Arms revolving like a mill.
Can’t wait to see the lads down The Crown,
Drink till the last bell,
To laugh and wash away the frown,
Trying not to think of the return to hell.
