I woke last night in deep despair, a nightmare in my mind,
I was naked as a newborn babe, there were no clothes to find.
I felt the squeeze of September's breeze on my downbelow:
I was at the nudist conference in dear old Drumshanbo.
I nearly fainted as I looked and took in the whole sight,
I wished I was in Kerry where they dress by day and night.
I thought of Sheemore occupied by nudists al fresco
and how Finn MacCumhail might turn and rise and head back to Glencoe.
And then I realised that 'twas no dream about undress
and of all the naked naturists there I looked the very best.
Then I raised my glass to Lough Allen Spa, the only place to go
if you want your ass uncovered where the Shannon waters flow.
(The Irish Naturist Association is celebrating 50 years of naturism. They are booked into the Lough Allen Spa in Drumshanbo, Co. Leitrim. This poem can be sung to the tune of Lovely Leitrim.)
