I'm told it's hot in Paraguay,
I suppose I ought to ponder why.
I think it's somewhere on my right,
a long and quite expensive flight.

I'm told it's cold in Katmandu
but truly I don't have a clue.
I think it's somewhere quite remote,
best reached by bicycle or boat.

I'm told the poles are poles apart
to treck them seems a pointless art.
Pure white as far as one can see;
just bored to tears is what I'd be.

And strangers? With my jaundiced eye,
I avoid and trust they'll pass me by.
True Brit am I and shall remain,
with factory fortnight in the rain.

Because of this I've never been;
indeed I've never even seen,
much more than Brighton and the pier,
cold chips and slightly warmish beer.

And a package tour I'll never take,
I'm scared of planes, I think they break.
The sea's to deep and full of shark,
with bite far nastier than their bark.

So foreign climes I must forsake,
no adventure will I ever make.
And this sceptred isle for evermore,
shall remain my one and only shore!