O Sofitel, my Sofitel
Defender of everything gallic
From the Fortitude girls who wish you “bonjour”
To the very last drop of Chateau Latour
Where tap water’s slightly metallic.
O Sofitel, brave Sofitel
Where Franglais is language de jour
Where pomme mousseline means potato not apple
with trout armondine you’re willing to grapple
and “siorées” you blithely endure.
O Sofitel, wee Sofitel
your bathrobes are laughably tiny
Your swimming pool’s quite Lilliputian in size
Though the towels are ample – a word to the wise
The water’s unpleasantly briny.
O Sofitel, dear Sofitel
You’ve room service meant for the wealthy
While your choice of desserts is impressive
And the length of the wine list excessive
You’ve no single main course marked healthy.
O Sofitel, sweet Sofitel
You’re not quite my hotel of choice
Though your strange Francophonia’s sweet
And the top floor lounge is a treat
If the Stamford had rooms I’d rejoice…
very beautiful