"ODE TO A MOONIE"
Gan Island Post 13th May 1972

There's a little coral island out in the Indian Sea,
The people who reside there, are as weird as weird can be.
All shapes and sizes you will see, like Paddy, Jock and Taffy,
You'll find them dozing in their pits, or boozing in the NAAFI

Poor unsuspecting moonies, on the first day they arrive,
Perspiring, so bewildered and only half alive.
Emerging from the Trannie Block and blinking in the sun,
The nine months of frustration has only just begun.

Maldies by the score you see, end also Ceylonese,
With the smell of Paki curry, adrifting on the breeze.
Frogs arc jumping underfoot end bats fly overhead,
And be careful of the Ghecko when ye climb into your bed.

You lay about and pray the Lord will make you nice and brown,
Then for three or four weeks solid, the rain comes hissing down.
You stumble through the swampland for a drink to ease the pain,
And dislocate your flip-flop falling down a monsoon drain.

The days pass by end very soon, your back begins to peel,
and your stomach turns over, rejecting every meal.
'Island in the Sun', they said, oh what an observation,
it may not be a downright lie, but still a fabrication.

But time itself heals everything, or so the pundits say,
And your suicidal tendencies begin to fade away.
Proud to be a Gannite, you join in all the fun,
and mad dogs of Englishmen, go out in the mid-day sun