LA BELLE PLAGE SANS JETSKI
(A Saga of Escape to Sarasota Bay from the Lake Erie Shoreline)

O what can ail thee, pale Canuck,
Gulf-coast and condo visiting,
Where the seagrass thrives along the Bay,
And Snowbirds sing ?

O what can ail thee, pale Canuck,
Jet-charter'd, shov'ling sore ?
The pompano is on the grill, fresh-
-Squozen juice U-pour.

I watched an ibis in the reeds,
Anguish'd "Need I ne'er go North?'
When rang a lady-elf with her
Clipboard and Porsche.

She drove me in her pager'd steed,
Past time-shar'd marsh, herons soar;
And there I fill'd her travel-mug
With Starbucks' pour.

We tour'd beachfront, boat-access too,
Benz'd realtors, well-bronz'd were they all,
They chirp'd, 'La Belle Plage sans Jetski -
Just behind the Mall.'

She drove me to Siesta Key.
En route I daydream'd, drawbridge high'd,
November's permanent escape
From the froze Lake-side.

(A capella)
And that is why few winter there,
Valve-closed or Erie-watering,
Though the sludge is filtered from the Lake
And no bugs sting.