Tell me not of Western Islands
Or some bonnie loch or ben
Of those hustled haunts, the Highlands;
I'm not going there again.
Cease from cackling so cocksurely
Of some heavenly woodland dell
Where the pipes of Pan blow purely;
I have sampled these as well.
Do not harp upon your hollow
Tales of Somewhere-by-the-Sea
Patronised by Ph. Apollo;
'Tisn't good enough for me.
No, nor urge me, friend, to hasten
To your "cloudless alien climes,"
Hungering for my Fleece like Jason--
I've been fleeced there many times.
No, not one of your romances
Can, I say, provide a lure;
Not one spot on earth's expanses
For my ailment find a cure.
Others may enjoy each jolly day
Somewhere with their hard-earned pelf;
But, for me, I want a holiday
From my super-silly self.
* * * * *