Upon fair Albion’s verdant shore,
I trod where ne’er I’d been before.
Not London’s bustling streets this time,
But Wales and England, most sublime.
In Wales, the sheep on rolling hills,
Their bleating song the valley fills.
Nature’s beauty, wild and free,
A sight that quite enchanted me.
Then England called, with friends so dear,
United by our passions here.
Moo Pa lingered two days more,
With feast and revelry galore.
In Atilla’s studio, we were embraced,
His young son joined us, sweet-faced.
This scepter’d isle, this blessed plot,
Has claimed our hearts, forget it not.
O Britain, land of mist and lore,
We’ll return to thee forevermore.
Thy charms have cast a spell so strong,
To thee, our hearts shall e’er belong.
This verse was crafted with the aid of Claude,
My most cherished artificial muse.
Captured moments, in plastic Diana’s view,
As always, uniquely askew.
