Dear sir, I write to complain. No wonder our city still declines! Unless a tourist has a map, he's bound to get lost: We require, in short, more signs!
With them, they'd find the tours And the cafés, pubs and stores, And they wouldn't have to keep asking me! (Most deferentially yours....)
Odds that one's wishes for rest And places to rest in coincide, Where sleepiness is caused by drinking far from one's house— Such a chance, in truth, is slight.
I make it one in three That I'll find land, foam or sea. But your list'ning to this song is, by now, Something of a certainty!
Show him the way to go home; I'm tired and I'm not sure where it is. You know that when he's had a few, there's no telling him— And that bottle there is his!
No matter how he goes— In a stupor, trance or doze— I'll be glad to see him finally find The way that only he knows!
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