No mash at this bash.
No turkey neither.
When it comes to sprouts there’s nout but there is Christmas fever.
Excited and giddy,
the Germans act like kiddies,
Erecting trees and tinsel
warming wine while we wait for old man fritzel.
And there’s Italians and Swiss who also speak German
and me in the corner who is wishing and yearning
for the white of the snow and a speech from the queen,
a round of charades, damaged liver and spleen.
The black face of the Dutch,
doesn’t act as such and instead are calm and jovial like a nun at a nativity revival.
The Brazilians sit too cool for school by the pool
but we’re all agreed that they’re hipster tools,
meanwhile The rest of the Latin Americans just can’t wait and even celebrate on the wrong date, Christmas eves their fiesta
and Christmas day spent in siesta.
But here are the Scottish,
confused and confounded,
bbq abides where the kilties abounded.
So without sprouts or bacon, our sausage undressed,
two scots abroad made a tad depressed.
Instead of the rain, and the grey, and the dreic,
we’ve sun overhead and we’re down by the beach.
But worry not, dear friends and family, we’ve drink here too so we’re just going to get hammered.