ODE TO SPANISH WIRING

How time passes when admiring
the aesthetic mysteries of Spanish wiring.
A thrill passes through me from collar to socks
at the sight of their fuses and junction box.
In the plaza cafe over postres,
a caffee con lecche or a pint of Fostres
I ask the waiter, a chap called Manuel
for a copy of the latest electrician's manual.
And he has a copy, and lends it me, bingo,
But of course it's in the local lingo.
And I have to say it's quite a pain
That they don't use English over in Spain.
But the sun is shining, I don't need to gripe,
I can just sit back and smoke my pipe;
maybe nibble a couple of oily tapas
and wash them down with one or two cuppas.
And amongst those deigos at the other tables
I can observe, bouche bée, the tangle of cables.
"The rain in Spain..." that's just elocution;
I prefer the chance of electrocution.