As `The Sick Man of Europe` their mid-sixties multi–European fraternal trade union visit to Hungary was slightly deflating. So they focused instead on the pleasant task of observing the beautiful young student daughter of their `minder` shyly and nervously embarking on her very first job as an interpreter…Her name was Nadia.

 

 After enduring a few sly `sick man` digs at the (drunken) `farewell` party their patience broke. So–rising-their poet banged the table for attention and declared:

 

All Germans…can fight. All Frenchmen…can cook

All Italians…can sing. All Spaniards…can dance.

 

Then - drawing himself up and looking them proudly in the eye – announced:

 

And all Englishmen…can write poetry.

 

and read them this.

 

 

 

 

NADIA IN THREE MOODS

 

1

 

Nadia sad-eyed, Nadia pensive

Nadia tentative and fearful,

Lonely, lost, and apprehensive

Sitting in the corner tearful.

 

2

 

Nadia care-free, Nadia tipsy

From the fruit of Magyar vine

Dancing like a bright-eyed gypsy

Swaying with such grace divine.

 

3

 

Nadia with all the world for asking

At her swan-neck`s mere incline,

In her fathers fondness basking

Take our hearts for they are thine.

 

 

 

(After which the four sons of the land that Shakespeare drew his breath in solemnly shook hands all round and staggered out)