For anyone that ever went on a club trip to the seaside
Take the quiet little train from quiet Bempton,
It’s a relaxing, calming fifteen-minute ride.
There’s nothing grandiose to greet you at the station,
Where Yorkshire collides with the North Sea tide.
The pavements are so clean they could be German,
Above the salt spray you can smell the sense of pride.
Where the overweight migrate to feast of fat food,
The locals refuse to let their civic duty slide.
You can almost hear Allan Bennett sighing,
At the singing from behind the café toilet door.
While children chase crabs in prehistoric footsteps,
Of pine forests now washed daily on the shore.
Kittiwakes drape shadows over clay cliffs,
They undulate over woolly mammoths’ heads.
Near the Aladdin’s cave declaring it sells “nick nacks”!
And traditional toys, like Buzz Lightyear overhead.
In the charity shop, Nigel is playing Romeo,
To his Juliet who smells of ancient fags.
But she’s too busy raising funds to help fight cancer,
She said so, stood outside, taking another drag.
But the fish and chips are worth the Covid queuing,
As Herring Gulls eye yours with envious eyes.
On your quintessential English coast occasion,
That delight, a daytrip out, to the seaside.