The poem
To Italy a random tour I took to crown my education, Returning relatively poor In purse yet rich in conversation. Old Rome put up a jolly show, But I am not a classic purist, Preferring to Mike Angelo The slim stems of a lady tourist.
Venice, they say, was built on piles; I used to muse, how did they do it? I tramped the narrow streets for miles, Religiously I gondoled through it. But though to shrines I bowed my head, My stomach's an aesthetic sinner, For in St. Mark's I yawned and said: "I hope we'll have lasagne for dinner."
Florence, I'll say, was mighty swell, With heaps of statues stark and lusty; I liked the Pitti Palace well, The Offusi I found to fusty. But though I "did" the best of it, My taste, I fear, is low and nasty, For in its bars I'd rather sit Imbibing cups of sparkling Asti.
And so we go, a tourist host, And pass art treasures little heeding, While memories that haunt us most Are those of rich and copious feeding. In sooth I see no need to roam, Since all I want this side of Hades, I'll comfortably find at home - Just eating, drinking and the Ladies.