Once I thought that you could boast
Such a perfect southern sky,
Flecked with summer clouds at most;
Always sunny, always dry,
Warm enough, perhaps, to grill an
Englishman, O muddy Milan!
Now I find you soaking wet,
Underneath an English sky;
Pavements, mediæval yet,
Whence mud splashes ever fly;
And, to make one damp and ill, an
Endless downpour, muddy Milan!
Though you boast such works of art,
Where is that unclouded sky?
Muddy Milan, we must part,
I shall gladly say good-bye,
Pack, and pay my little bill--an
Artless thing--and leave you, Milan.
* * * * *