I am cultured,
seasoned with budget less trips.
Only the finest Sangiovese has touched these lips.
I set fire to Valencia in March,
sipped chilled champagne under Napoleon’s arch,
caught a view from Rialto in late May,
sailed the Thames to find solitude in Waiomu Bay,
I danced flamenco during the Feria of Seville,
walked Buonarroti to learn of Michelangelo’s skill.
While sipping a 25 aged sherry off the Monaco coast,
an old man stood blocking the postcard view,
slowly the obstruction spoke, “What have you to show of your life?”
Prepared to boast of the things my eyes had seen,
the places I’d been the stamps filling my passport pages.
Confidence mixing with sweat from the sun,
I opened my mouth yet found myself agape,
with hardly a rebuttle I realized,
“I have nothing to offer except my own confusion.”
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