by Jack Baxendale
Nov 96
We remember with pleasure, our viisit to Wien,
Where Jack in the Army, mid forties had been.
The city on him, did profoundly effect,
And 50 years on, his dear wife did infect.
Vienna was bombed, t'wards the end of the war,
Fine buildings destroyed, leaving many sad scar.
By four zones divided, the city was split,
American and Russian, the French and the Brit.
But now - all these buildings, restored in grand style,
And neatly arranged, round Ringstrasse profile.
There's Hofburg and Rathaus, - museums galore,
From Hapsburgh to Haydn, - at least seventy four.
The birthplace of Schubert, and Beethoven's house,
And Mozart and Bruckner, - of course - Johann Strauss.
The Palace of Schönbrunn, and Musikverein,
At Staatsoper, Volksoper, - the singing divine.
Now the Marriage of Figaro, is so convoluted,
And old Don Giovanni, - was so disreputed.
Those opera plots, - so far fetched in good measure,
But who cares a hoot, when we've had so much pleasure.
St Charles, and St Stephen's, and St Augustin,
Where on Sunday a Mass, by Mozart heard therein.
The orchestra, choir, and the organ - sublime,
Nostalgic, emotion, spanned fifty years time.
To Grinzing we trammed, it was early one morn,
Bright sun bathed the vineyyards, - 'twas good to be born.
Then walked through the woods, for which Strauss is well known,
And dreamed of a new walz, - he'd just done for Joan.
We sampled sweet grapes, falling full on the
vine,
Then on to a tavern, to sup last year's wine,
And Sturm, which is this year's, with crunchy crisp bread
Deceptively strong, - it soon sped to the head.
If the Danube is blue, there are those, who're
not sure,
But this day in sun, it was truly azure.