Has forced young boughs, I must admit,
To spread their grudging shade a bit.
* * *
But where's my rambling story rushing?
'In dry Odessa'so said I. I might have said:
'Odessa gushing' And even so have told no lie.
For six whole weeks it happens yearly,
On stormy Zeus's orders clearly:
Odessa's flooded, drowned, and stuck,
Immersed in thickly oozing muck.
In mud waist-high the houses snuggle;
On stilts alone can feeble feet
Attempt to ford the muddy street.
The coaches and the people struggle,
And then the bent-head oxen pant
To do what helpless horses can't.
* * *
But now the hammer's smashing boulders,
And soon with ringing slabs of slate
The salvaged streets will muster shoulders,
As if encased in armoured plate.
But moist Odessa, all too sadly,
Is lacking yet one feature badly:
You'll never guess . . . it's water-short!
To find the stuff is heavy sport.. .
But why succumb to grim emotion?
Especially since the local wine
Is duty free and rather fine.
And then there's Southern sun and ocean . . .
What more, my friends, could you demand?
A blessed and most favoured land!
* * *
No sooner would the cannon, sounding,
Proclaim from ship the dawn of day
Than, down the sloping shoreline bounding,
Towards the sea I'd make my way.
And there, my glowing pipe ignited,
By briny waves refreshed and righted,
In Muslim paradise complete,
I'd sip my Turkish coffee sweet.
I take a stroll. Inciting urges,
The great Casino's opened up;
I hear the ring of glass and cup;
The marker, half asleep, emerges
Upon the porch, with broom in hand,
Where two expectant merchants stand.
***
And soon the square grows gay and vital.
Life pulses full as here and there,
