Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
poling my customers around the canals,
wearing my dark pants and red-striped top,
with my red neckerchief and funky straw hat.
Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
I would be one of 400,
controlled by a guild,
sheltered by the Institution for the
Protection and Conservation of
Gondolas and Gondoliers.
Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
I would have finished my apprenticeship,
more than 400 hours of training in six months,
been tested on my language skills
and Venetian history,
and my oarsmanship would be spectacular.
I would make my poling look easy.
Ah, but don’t ask me to sing, my friends,
lest you suffer a hardship to your ears
and to your pocketbook.
Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
I would make my US $150,000 per year,
feed my family with fine foods,
have my striped shirt pressed
and ironed professionally
and my black shoes polished
by the best in the city.
I would wear silver rings
and cap my teeth in gold.
Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
poling customers through the canals,
day after day after day,
with no room for professional
growth or promotion,
mindless work to satisfy the wants of tourists
who don’t really care about Venice
except that their friends know they are here.
Ah, to be a gondolier in Venice,
a torment I dare not desire,
a suffering a dare not experience.