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.