You tempt me not, o tower Eiffel,
O Louvre, you are the merest trifle.
While some may say that Paris sizzles,
I’d be there on the days its drizzles.
Why lug my camera off to Rome
For ruins? Have you seen my home?
Don’t talk to me of Hong Kong’s charm—
I’d rather see a poultry farm.
Darkest Africa? Not I—
It teems with anthropophagi!
Scandanavia? Too chilly.
Switzerland? The Alps? Too hilly!
Big Ben, Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square—
I find no romance anywhere.
No, London’s not my cup of tea,
And neither is the Baltic, see?
New Zealand fills me with no zeal—
I’d long for home again, I feel.
The Riviera’s just too crass.
On Monte Carlo’s games I’ll pass.
Swilling beer in bawdy Munich?
Not for me, though I’m no eunuch;
No, just the shy, retiring type,
Whose greatest joys are slipper, pipe,
An armchair where, with quilt of flannel,
I can watch the Travel Channel.
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