There was a family who, every year,
Would go abroad, sometimes to Italy,
Sometimes to France. The youngest did not dare to say,
'I much prefer to stay right here'
You see, abroad there were no slot-machines,
No bright pink rock with none name going though it,
No rain, no boarding-houses, no baked beans,
No landladies, and no familiar scenes.
And George, the youngest boy, so longed to say,
'I don't like Greece, I don't like all these views,
I don't like having fierce sun every day,
and, most of all, I just detest the way
The food is cooked - That garlic and that soup,
Those strings of pasta, and no cakes at all;
The family wondered why George seemed to droop
And looked just like a thin hen in a coop.
They never guessed why when they said, 'Next year
We can't afford abroad, we'll stay right here,
George looked so pleased and soon began to dream
Of piers, pink rock, deep sand, and Devonshire cream.