Here we are home from a trip,
To a yard full of weeds and faucets that drip.
Sailing back and forth on a great ocean liner,
What could be better, what could be finer?
In between crossings England did call,
Cotswold villages, thatched roofs and all.
In rivers and streams, there are swans black and white,
Gracefully paddling, these bird socialites.
In Wales, the fields are gorgeously green,
With dry stone walls in between.
Neat and clean, no wasted space,
Folks ignore Toms Jones' birthplace.
Return to the present, but never forget,
Those happy days and good friends we met.
Honey ice cream in Aberarion,
Fish and Chips and indigestion.
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