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Holiday 3 - Changing Weather

You've hired a clapped out Lada, tanked up on Pina Collada,
Dusty roads all going nowhere,
Its pissing down, you've time to spare
At Fuegeurola Town you make your stop,
A castle and a leather shop,
So this is where the mad rep sent ya,
It’s nothing like the Trafford Centre,
You mooch as best about the place,
And come away with belt and lace,
At last a rest a mocachino,
Bread sticks and a glass of vino,
And as the rain pours harder,
You make your way back to the Lada,
It’s getting so you've had enough,
Will you ever get those Kaghouls off,
Back to nowhere do not falter,
This is the place that they call... M a l t a
(two days later) ......
At last sun on your face, in that God forsaken place,
Your going to lie there without a care,
Smothered in Ambre Solare,
Factor two should see you through,
To a burnished hue, what else to do,
As depature draws nearer, your running out of lire,
It couldn’t be clearer that you best make the most,
Just don’t look like burned toast, as that’s no boast,
When sitting on the plane, all prickly and in pain,
With only after- sun gel to relieve the hell,
Please keep well...