With the aural experience of eighties synths
And flying through straits not so dire
That men have no emotion, among other myths
For this reflection upon the present quagmire
For a brief interlude this new land, this new home is left behind
My own feelings depart as a surprise
It turns out, this country, my friends, you mind
Are precious to me beyond any prize
A lady, my sister, my home, my work, a Strait away
This lady, a guiding light, a beacon in times sombre
My friend, a best friend, a sister as bright as day
My work—bleak, grey, compared to my friends’ hearts’ joyful colour.
Strange collection of proud blue and yellow,
I adopt progressively it with great content
The mellifluous language sounds so mellow
Before the dialect’s true internal advent
This meandering sequence of rhyme
Does little justice to those dear to me
Or the country whose habits I mime
It’s hard to talk about, to even see
When you hugged each other thrice
And three cinnamon rolls apiece
So I rolled the fateful dice
Until I return from the seas.