The cheery Aussie border guards insist
You’ve cleaned your worn-out shoes; you have not missed
Some hidden sodden clod from mountain trails
High up in some remoter part of Wales
There are no exceptions; it’s his duty
To ban soil from other lands of natural beauty.
Cambrian hills of peaty purity
Cut no ice with biosecurity
It’s more likely and somewhat less absurd
They’ll find you’ve trodden in a doggy turd.
Steve Blakesley (September 2019)
Taid of Life 