That town of yours, it's rather wicked;
I don't know why you chose to pick it.
It stands on bogs, it never sleeps,
It waltzes quietly and weeps.

Its dwellers one by one go mad,
There's not a day they don't get sad.
They try to trick it - poor wee souls,
For it's for them that the bell tolls.

I beg of you to leave the city,
It will not make you strong and witty.
It'll rape you, squash you like a bug,
You'll break in pieces like a mug.

Run far away, back in the country
Where olden couples still play country.
Be realistic, be complete, -
But never, ever go to St. Pete.