And now, for an homage of my own creation:

When I try to imagine bliss,
It doesn’t look a lot like this.
But neither does it look like most
With towering palm trees or shimmering coast.
In fact, I think my bliss might be
A quiet cave by a stormy sea.
The muddy banks of a babbling brook,
A cell of stone in a life-sized rook,
A musty attic filled with trunks,
Or the cramped confines of a sailor’s bunk.
Exotic places and sights will keep,
So give me a dungeon where I can sleep
Undisturbed by the passage of time.
Give me a graveyard, and I’ll make it mine.
A place where the world will let me be,
That my friends, is bliss to me.