The Traveler

IT isn’t that America is dull, dear,
You’ve actually got to live some place, of course;
But every now and then there comes a lull, dear,
Like that between one’s marriage and divorce.
I always travel when I get the fidgets:
You can’t domesticate an active brain.
I’d simply have an intellect tike Bridget’s
Unless I’d been exposed to France and Spain.
There’s nothing better than a trip to Rio;
I’ve always thought I’d sail around the Horn.
It’s nice to watch the stars and look at Leo;
I’ve had the wheelman show me Capricorn.
Last year I went to India and Darjeeling:
I was n’t. taken with the Taj Mahal.
Mohammedans are friendliest when kneeling;
There is n’t much in Suez but canal.
What is there half so pretty as a fez in
The morning, like a painted flowerpot?
I love to hear the voice of the muezzin —
But still the Orient is very hot.
Imaginative people look for Eden
From Labrador, in summer, to Shanghai.
I have romantic memories of Sweden,
And natives singing quarter-tones in Skye.
Nothing geographic is consistent:
The Matterhorn is only sweet because
You’re drinking beer in villages quite distant.
It’s always the comparison that awes.
One finds it pleasant, taking a siesta
Somewhere in Salamanca or Seville.
In Italy officials are podesta:
I knew one once. I always called him Bill.
A fascinating little place is Java,
And Sicily’s idyllic for its goats.
Volcanoes with some vestiges of lava
Are stimulating from the decks of boats.
It does n’t matter much the place or country,
That foreign feeling is the thing one needs:
An attitude of insolent effrontery
Behind a comfortable suit of tweeds.
It is n’t that America is dull, dear,
But somehow I prefer a steamer chair.
I’m just a little restless, like the gull, dear,
When April isn’t hero, and England’s there.