People think that Riga is a beautiful Art Deco city
With the fresh waves of the Baltic lapping at its gates
(those few who have ever heard of it that is to say);
But I have been there and have experienced its dark yet erotic heart
As I shall herewith spell out in lurid detail, so kindly watch out
Should you be some sort of prude or narrow-minded git.
I was attracted to visit this gem of a Hanseatic city
By the exciting promotional slogan of the Latvian Tourist Board,
\"Come to Riga, get totally rat-arsed and enjoy our low age of consent\",
As well as by the possibility of attending the premiere performance
By the Latvian National Opera of a new operatic masterpiece
Entitled enticingly and entrancingly, \"Kur ir ateja?\"
And so I and a few stalwarts from the Newcastle-upon-Tyne rugby club
Flew off to lovely Riga on a four hours late cut-price Ryanair flight
(and how fabulously lucky I was to get a seat all to myself!)
To be rapturously welcomed by a deputation of ladies of the night
In their traditional vanilla body paint with whipped cream outfits,
And immediately taken on a tour of the city\'s most exotic bars
(including the \'Perkonkrusts\', a fave haunt of Aryan blue eyed blondes);
And needless to say I and my friends enjoyed an substantial number
Of most obliging ladies (some quite elderly at nineteen and a half),
All of whom naturally adored being spit-roasted by drunken rugby players.
However, tragedy struck in a most unexpected way on our third day
When we went on a coach excursion to Liepāja, a quaint seaside town,
Where we had been promised the prostitutes were significantly cheaper
And even more debauched than in the splendid capital city of Riga
With delightful blackened teeth, untouched by Western dentifrice
(and hardened by years of copulating with unwashed alcoholic Russians).
One of my colleagues inadvertently tripped up on a broken paving stone
Falling into a pothole in the main street the size of a volcanic crater;
Whilst waiting for him to climb out my friends took the opportunity
To empty their bursting bladders against a nearby bronze statue.
How were they to know it was a monument to the famous national hero,
Viktors Arājs, driver of the mythical blue bus and brave ethnic cleanser?
All the Latvian patriots we had noticed lying in the gutters
Suddenly woke up, quivering with righteous nationalistic rage, and
All eight of my friends were ripped to bleeding shreds in a few moments.
I may say that I was lucky to escape myself - this was only possible
Because I had exchanged clothes with a lady friend and was mistaken
For a tallish teenage whore by the butch defenders of the Fatherland.
And so I staggered into a tavern, barely able to whisper the magic words
\"Lūdzu vēl vienu glāzi tumšā alus!\" in a sexy whisper before, oh dear
I was propositioned by a midget (he may have been a gnome
but he was hung down below like the proverbial donkey)
Dear God, I shall not go back to Latvia in a hurry and how on earth
Can I explain to eight grieving widows back home these sad events?
Since my poor rectum felt in need of plastic surgery after the gnome,
Thus I upgraded to British Airways Club Class on the way home
As I felt I required a comfortable seat near the toilets
(in case I got taken short, I should add). Ar labunakti!
Notes for non Latvian speakers:
\"Kur ir ateja?\" = \"Where is the toilet?\"
\"Lūdzu vēl vienu glāzi tumšā alus!\" = \"A nice big glass of dark beer please\"
\"Ar labunakti!\" = \"Good Night\"