I like cruising around the Med
A poem by Geek Ergo Sum aged 37 and 3/20ths – written in semi rhyming free prose (and done on the train so no guarantees on the quality) and inspired by both a map of the Mediterranean and two weeks spent on a boat
I like cruising around the Med,
I can do it from my bed,
You get to go on a great big ship,
The waves go up and then they dip.
To set sail we left the port,
On the island of Majorc..
..a, no time to wave to a farmer,
As we left from sunny Palma.
(Are you hurting yet? The English language is).
Entertainment on board knew what fun is,
But the next day we arrived at Tunis,
Nearby the fields of Carthage were salted,
After Hannibals advances the Romans halted.
Off we went, to where, who could say,
There’s an itinerary, oh look, Pompeii,
The ruined streets we walked that day,
As Vesuvius loomed across the bay.
The roughening seas were not leaving me peachy,
As we arrived in the land of Medici,
The majestic shadow of Florence’s Duomo,
Covering David on the banks of the Arno.
Have a drink and watch another car go,
In a bar in Monte Carlo,
The whole of the harbour is ready for Grand Prix,
With all the yachts of the tax-free.
Another day, another early start,
To tour the home of Bonaparte,
Hot Ajaccio on Corsica,
On this cruise with Ma and Pa.
I feel sorry for that lonely farmer,
No need to fear though, we’re back in Palma,
Not much to say we need to get going,
We’re only half way through this poem.
Oh we’re back again in Tunis,
Cabin fever making us loonies,
Instead of getting of to go to the medina,
I’ll stay on board and have me dinner.
Next to Rome, and the ancient Colosseum,
The fake gladiators who pounce as soon as you see them,
The forum, the piazzas, the Palatine hill,
It’s a busy day but we’ve not had our fill.
We have enough time, or so we hope,
To make a house call to the home of the Pope,
The Sistine Chapel and all the art on the wall,
All at the Basilica of Saint Paul.
One last stop to make in Italy,
This one will be fun, at last for me,
To the San Siro, all because I’m a fan,
Of the Rossonerri, AC Milan.
Then a quiet day on the South of France,
In a town with people who were pants,
Of that stop I have little to tell,
Not much to say of St Raphael.
The next sea leg was rough, but I don’t want to be a moaner,
As the final stop is the wonder of Barcelona,
Up the Ramblas, round the streets off we go
Before the museum at the Camp Nou.
So now we come to the poem’s end,
Thank god…it was pretty awful.