My Father Read 'the New York Times,'

And Off In The Far Distance, The Gold On The Wings Of The Angel Atop The Bell Tower Of San Marco Flashed In The Sun, Bathing The Entire City In Its Glistening Benediction.

The Germans And Austrians Are Very Polite, The Swiss Are Very Reserved And The Spanish Usually Kiss Me. The Brits Write Me Letters.

A Story Begins And It Always Passes From The Subjunctive To The Declarative. And Italians Don't Seem To Care About Making A Fine Distinction Between That Which Is Speculation And That Which Is Fact.

I Just Go To Lunch. And I Never Know When Something Is Going Into The File And Something Is Not.

Venetians Feel Affection And Loyalty To Their City, Rather Than To The Italian State.