In Britain, November is horrid.
It's cold and it's dark and it's damp.
My friend and I sought to avoid it,
And find somewhere warm to decamp.
To Mexico therefore we headed,
But here it's so humid and hot.
Tepid baths were a likely solution.
Do they freshen us up? They do NOT.
Mosquitos abound where we're staying.
Conditions for them are ideal.
And fresh English blood is so tempting:
In short, we're their ultimate meal.
We bought for ourselves special bracelets.
We cover bare skin in repellent.
Burn candles that waft citronella.
Nothing works as an insect deterrent.
In crowded locations we've mingled
But these creatures make solely for us.
Their bites may be huge, red and livid -
Or form pimples with gross yellow pus.
We've remedial creams to stop itching,
But a good scratch is sometimes in need.
This may give relief for the moment,
But afflicted parts then start to bleed.
A fly killer can we brought with us.
At bedtime we spray round the room.
But the blighters get in through the air con.
To their targets, they rapidly zoom.
So we're languishing, scratching and itching,
Thanks to pests we can't render inactive.
And those dank grey autumnal conditions
Back in Sheffield now seem quite attractive!