They come to airports with their clipboards
Clutched in arms, golden brown,
A healthy life under the Majorcan sun.
Until that sun begins to sink
And stars come out with fishbowl drinks,
Girls in skimpy clothes and boys
Out to score in noisy clubs.
The reps are at the centre of it all,
Leading guests onto the battle field,
The strip that never sleeps at night,
With crazy Brits just out for fun
That very often ends in tears
Or at least a greasy chicken meal.