But you begin to bore me, O eternal Muleteer!
O Gondolier! my Gondolier! pray quit the Adriatic;
That cold lagoon will make me soon incurably asthmatic.
Enough of barcarolling when the moon is in the skies;
I'm sick of the Rialto and I hate the Bridge of Sighs.
Your craft may suit, on summer nights, the songster or the
dreamer;
But, both for speed and elegance, give me the penny steamer.
Your city is romantic, but your songs begin, I fear,
To pall upon me sadly, O eternal Gondolier!