In Italy the sky is blue; The native loafs and lolls about, He's nothing in the world to do, And does it fairly well, no doubt; (Ital-i-ans are disinclined To honest work of any kind).
A light Chianti wine he drinks, And fancies it extremely good; (It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks); -- While macaroni is his food. (I think it must be rather hard To eat one's breakfast by the yard).
And, when he leaves his country for Some northern climate, 'tis his dream To be an organ grinder, or Retail bacilli in ice-cream. (The French or German student terms These creatures '_Paris_ites' or '_Germs_. ')
Sometimes an anarchist is he, And wants to slay a king or queen; So with some dynamite, may be, Concocts a murderous machine; 'Here goes! ' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake! ' Then blows himself up by mistake.
Naples and Florence both repay A visit, and, if fortune takes Your toddling little feet that way, Do stop a moment at The Lakes. While, should you go to Rome, I hope You'll leave your card upon the Pope.
_MORAL_
Don't work too hard, but use a wise discretion; Adopt the least laborious profession. Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must, Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust.
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