Oh, who would choose to be a traveler? --
That anxious railway-guide unraveler
Who spends his nights in berths and bunks,
His days in chaperoning trunks;
Who stands in line at gates and wickets
To spend his means on costly tickets
To Irkutsk, Liverpool and Yap
And other dots upon the map.
He never rests, but always hurries
From place to place, beset with worries
About hotels and future trips
And just how much to give in tips.
He plods through galleries, museums,
Cathedrals, castles, coliseums,
And villages reputed quaint
With patience worthy of a saint
To give his friends the chance of hooting,
“You didn’t visit Little Tooting?!!”
This poem is in the public domain.