Not always bad, sometimes it clicks.
Scarcely had I got inside
The Museum when," Have you a guide?"
The man beside me, Mr. Holt
A Canadian without French (his fault?)
Was casting round without success
To find one. "Here I am. No stress!"
We agreed to meet by Lion stairs
Of Brussels Town Hall; no one cares
That official channels are sidestepped.
Here what you see is what you get.
Six people keen to learn some more
Than guide book tells, want to explore
And see behind main tourist streets
Where Brussels' quirky heart still beats.
An added bonus, it was hot
Droves of tourists seemed to flock
Around the little peeing boy
Whose pose delights the hoi polloi.
Brussels in the summer sun
What luck, I too can have some fun.
The City I am proud to call
My own, just never seems to pall.
We walk on though the shops invite
Keen to continue, time is tight.
They want to see the River bed
And we find it, where they once baked bread.
Too much history, facts and dates
We mustn't overfill our plates
So interwoven in the spiel
Some anecdotes, to make it real.
Two hours on, their mother tires
She's not alone, her son perspires
They're happy with the tour it's clear
And would I join them for a beer?
Written in 2006
(c) Poet in the woods 2014
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