The Well Dressed Brit

We sat languidly on our porch While the sun blow torched the small Karoo town A shimmering image appeared in the distance, Treading the dusty brown path with an elegance That defied the heat of the sun. Closer it came, Walking God-like on a mirage of water. It was the Brit In his best outfit. Suit, collar, and tie The finest that money could buy. Imported from England, of course. Money well spent, and without remorse. Shoes mirrored the pebbles in the dust Black brolly as a shade, precisely angled. Coming to our braai From his house nearby. Thank you. No wine Beer will be fine Castle if you’ve got Ice cold. Not hot Sweat poured from his face Gracefully mopped with a handkerchief That brought little relief. His Father had taught him to dress well And he felt compelled To keep up the tradition Of being a well dressed Briton