I'm sick of the Mongol and Tartar I'm sick of the Jap and Malay, And far-away spots on the chart are No place for yours truly to stay. I've had enough undersized chicken And milk that comes out of a can; The East is no region to stick in For this one particular man. I'm weary of curry and rice all Commingled with highly spiced dope, I'm weary of bathing with Lysol And washing with carbolic soap. I'm tired of itch, skin diseases, Mosquitoes and vermin and flies; I'm fed up on tropical breezes And sunshine that dazzles my eyes. Oh, Lord, for a wind with a tingle, An atmosphere zestful and keen, Oh, Lord, once again just to mingle With crowds that are white folks—and Clean. To eat without fear of infection, To sleep without using a net, And throw away all my collection Of Iodine, Quinine, et cet. To know all the noise and the clamor The hurry and fret of the West I'd trade all the Orient Glamour That damned lying poets suggest. They sing of the East as enthralling (And that's why I started to roam) But—I hear the Occident calling— Oh, Lord, but I want to go home! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRINGTIME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BLIND by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO DANTE by VITTORIO AMEDEO ALFIERI HYMN TO MONT BLANC [IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 19. TO AN ATHLETE DYING YOUNG by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN |