A Few of My Favorite Places

I wonder how the weather in the Black Forest is this time of year--
I see that Bob Dylan is visiting Venice.
I've often wondered about Cabo San Lucas--
I have some long-lost relatives in County Sligo, Ireland--
There are some friends in Taipei, as well as Canberra, Austrailia--
I'm sure the people of Cameroon would be happy to see me--
Do you think I would like the gypsies of Bucharest?
Would I swoon in ecstasy over the ceramic tiles of Tangiers?
Would I be able to resist the temptation of absinthe in Prague?
Could I simply relax in Ibiza? Or Cannes? Or Seville?
I don't like vodka so St. Petersburg is out.
And I don't like revolutions so Tianamen Square is probably a bad idea too.
I do like angel hair pasta, frescos, and Da Vinci so Florence sounds good.
As does Milan, Venedig, and Italy's countryside. The Napa valley might be nice too.
I don't like to hide all the time so the Middle East is out.
And I don't like to dress up all the time so Paris is out.
I do like to eat lots of fish--including scallops, salmon, lobster, clams, mussels, prongs
and swordfish so Dubrovnik might work.
I've never been to New Zealand before and I'm sure it's lovely since that's where they filmed Lord of the Rings...
Did I already miss Karnival in Brazil? The movie Black Orpheus was filmed there.
I like to waltz so Vienna would be fun. I could talk to Freud's ghost.
There's Munich of course that I love for the heavenly music.
I've never been to Korea. Either of them. But I did flirt with the idea of Seoul once.
Stratford would have been nice. I could have bought my Spanish cousin Jane a
pearly velvet gown--just like the fur of the velveteen rabbit I had as a little girl
that matched my Louie VIII amethyst shawl.

Here. This will make you happy. A poem by American Poet, Marianne Moore:

No Swan So Fine

"No water so still as the
dead fountains of Versailles." No swan,
with swart blind look askance
and gondoliering legs, so fine
as the chintz china one with fawn-
brown eyes and toothed gold
collar on to show whose bird it was.

Lodged in the Louis Fifteenth
candelabrum-tree of cockscomb-
tinted buttons, dahlias,
sea urchins, and everlastings,
it perches on the branching foam
of polished sculptured
flowers - at ease and tall. The king is dead.