I raise a glass to Paris's
edifice of steel,
a sight that, for the tourist, is
bound to have appeal.
I do not mean the Eiffel Tower,
for it is my belief
you'll far prefer a French pissoir
when you seek relief.
Then on to Munich's festival
for beers of different kinds,
but - what I think is best of all -
they're served in litre steins.
I drank too much and then I heaved,
in days when I was rasher,
and, you could say, I was relieved
to find a urinflasche.
At last to London I repaired,
to the Pig and Whistle,
and there, again, just as I feared,
I shortly whist a pistle.
I staggered like a bloated toad,
to the gents' urinal.
To my relief that ends my ode.
It's all zipped up! That's final.
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