The Song of the Summer


The song of the summer, of sandals and socks,
Of blue traffic jams and of thin flowered frocks,
Of boiled up markets with hot, sticky floors,
Of red skin and midges and wedged open doors,
Of arguing adults and beetroot-faced brats,
Of empty museums and flip flops and gnats,
Of people in car parks wearing Ambre Solaire
And newspaper shields to ward off the sun’s glare,
Of transistor radios, fights in the street,
The stench of burnt aftershave mingled with meat,
Of horse dung and ice cream and thick diesel fumes.
That’s the song of the summer. Let’s hope it ends soon.


18 responses to “The Song of the Summer

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