The contents of this blogging,
Are not quite what they seem.
Nor are they, I should probably say,
the features of a dream

With minutes in between myself
and hitting Paris, France,
En route to Northern Cameroon
I've a blogging boil to lance.

There's pent up chat that's welling up,
behind my sun burnt brow,
And trepidation oozing
like a waste product of 'cow'

Forgive this lit'ral effluent,
that decks this e-based journal,
And be so very grateful
that for you it's not diurnal.

One minute thirty seconds left
This internet's quite pricey,
And the Yates' Mighty Burger
Was, I think, a little Dicey.

The 'Roon it calls,
It's hours away, and so I must post ...