It can be a menace, Venice.
It can be wet, and yet,
On a day when the sun shines,
And the wind whips the top
Off the chop
On the Grand Canal,
And the boats ply their trade
In a parade
Of taxis, buses, barges,
And smiling Japanese,
Ill at ease
Packed in shiny gondolas,
Photograph everything,
Including me.
That’s when I see
What Canaletto saw.
What’s more,
It’s what made Byron
Fire on
All cylinders,
To satisfy his young libido
On the Lido.
But beauty that can so entice
Has its price.
So beware the winsome welcome.
You’ll be fleeced,
From richest to poorest,
As a tourist.