I'm not what you'd call a sunbathing purist
I'm an easy distinguished British tourist
I'm pinky/white, like a wafer in colour
Turning more lobster on the first day of summer
Yet every year, without failure
I'd hit the beach, eye eye sailor
The lotion over my freckles would ooze
Highlighted by my perky man boobs
I'm classically English, not much of a looker
When sand hits sun cream, like a donut with sugar
If this beach had twitter I would be trending
As hash tag white man trying to blend in
Sand in all crevasses which won’t come out
This, we are told, is what holidaying is about
The day lingers on and the sweat slowly greases
And starts running in eyes and belly creases
There are always those worse off than me
Like albino kids wearing t-shirts in the sea
In a bar under brolly I’d rather be sitting
I've had my fill of the beach I'm quitting
It’s no way to spend your free time
With jagged rocks and the seaweed slime
To be like chips is what we are taught
All sun cooked, oiled, covered in sea salt
Sun, Sea and sand for the perfect vacation
But the beach is no place for relaxation
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