Fish and chips on the Isle of Skye
At eight PM when the sun is still high,
With friendly midgies and the coffee hot
Where the Chips are greasy but the fish is not.
The opaque moon says “look at me”
Above the bright blue shiny sea,
The fluffy pillows hang in the air
While the Spannish tourists sigh and stare.
The little boats give you a dance
The distant mountains give you a trance,
My wife’s lipstick smears on her fork
We taste the view and enjoy a talk.
While we let Skye work to catch our breath
We see less is more & more is less,
So it doesn’t matter the slice was dry
With the Fish and chips on the Isle of Skye.
Note : a “midgie” is like mini mosquito