People call me Gangstupe, a sobriquet,
But my real name is Wolfgang, any day.
Yes, Wolfgang Schtupid, on my day of birth,
The Birth Certificate brings forth mirth.
I’m a traveller, around the globe,
Finding beaches, where to disrobe.
Locating cities with much history,
Unravelling facts, no longer a mystery.
I write travel books, tell the world,
About my journeys, truth always upheld.

Lately I had a desire for India.
Monsoon time, weather windier,
Yes, I had an India notion,
Meant sailing across the Indian Ocean.

The first stop would be at Bangalore,
There Gangstupe banged his head and it was sore,
He felt his stomach did extrude,
From overeating much spicy food.
Then up the coast to the town of Goa.
More spicy curries, and then some more.
He wasn’t scheduled to go to New Delhi,
But he already suffered from Delhi Belly.
Gastroenteritis, is might be called by some,
Either way, his bowel was as tight as a drum.

Then on up the coast to old Bombay,
The Gateway to India, what can we say.
Except that to Mumbai, they’ve changed the name.
For that, I expect, politicians are to blame.
Bombay seemed to be chockablock with phone calling stations,
Telephoning to bother with sales calls, most other nations,
Driving people, otherwise balanced, quite insane,
Oh, how the world wished they would refrain!

Then on up north to Ahmedabad,
Not so good, not frightfully bad.
That about wrapped up the tour,
Not all that India offered, to be sure.
He would write a book, events to record,
He would stick to the truth, every word.
Then he would think up a title you see,
Which would be: - INDIANOCEANODYSSEY