A while ago, my wife and I stayed in Paris for a month. One day, in the early morning, before setting off on an excursion to artist Claude Monet’s house, I jotted this ditty to warm up for the occasion:

In his day Monet held sway,

He painted flowers his own way.

He didn’t know that we would go there,

To Giverny, to see his ol’ lair.

But with his gifts so French and rare,

Why didn’t he paint a chocolate eclair?

To St. Lazare for turnstile turnin,’

To catch the next French train to Vernon,

To have a full, long day of learnin,’

Before we’re home tonight to turn in.

We’ll see his house, his grass, his pods,

Which we are sure to like a lods,

And see the tourists&...

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