Oh, to be back in the sceptred isle on a sepulchral January day,
No, there’s no place like home the old folks unfailingly say,
The rain paints the streets a shade of an all too familiar grey,
Hmm, whatever possessed me to go rather than jolly well stay?
Now I’m thinking of MY home as I trudge through the spray,
Where the rain gently but rarely falls on the sun crazed clay,
That welcoming sun’s calling me back, and no more will I stray,
I’m going home, getting my old Spurs scarf and giving it away.