I was made for Austria
where Africa once met Europe
and created the Alps,
the long green valleys
of summer, the white
carpeted Tyrol hills where
The Beatles skiied in Help!
(ha-ha-ho-ho-hee-hee).
The alpine Yo-de-lay-ee-oh.
I was made for post-war Vienna:
its cafes and concert halls
a far cry from allied occupation
and the ash heaps and vacant
lots of Harry Lime infamy.
Play me a zither and serve me
dark coffee and schnapps.
Say the names Mozart,
Beethoven or Strauss.
Drop me in the Danube
for a slow drift to Germany.
Sometimes it takes a life
to find where you most belong:
a better home.
I was made now, I know,
for Austria and its beauty
and Philharmonic uplift.
Yes, Vienna–the dream,
my soul and all that.