Try this instead (from http://www.troutmag.clara.net/luggage.html)

WHERE DO YOU GO TO, MY LUGGAGE?
(To the tune of 'Where Do You Go To My Lovely?' by Peter Sarstedt)

You look like a suitcase by Cardin. Your straps are all leather, I'm sure.
Full of clothes by the best of designers, well my aftershave says it's Dior.

We impressed them all at Luton Airport, with your locks all picked out in gold,
Off to the Costa del Plenty, so get into that cargo hold.
(There you go, nice and safe.)

But where do you go to, my luggage, when I'm on my charter plane?
I'd like to get into my new shorts, but they're in Japan. I'm in Spain.
(Yes I am. How'd you do that?)

The plane's only 17 hours late. it could be much worse, so they say.
The carousel spins around gaily. cases all get picked up, go away.
(O.K., where've you gone?)

I'm standing here like a Wally, no sign of my luggage again.
A suitcase with a mind of its own is getting to be a serious pain.

Oh where do you go to my luggage, when I'm on that charter plane?
I want to get into a clean shirt, but somehow you got to Bahrain.
(I said Spain. You know I did.)

I remember the back shelves of Woolies, a suitcase all lost and alone,
Saved from the season-end markdown, by my rush to get packed and go home.

I know you're not really by Cardin. your plastic straps don't come from France.
The gold's peeling off from your tinplate, but you look pretty good at first glance.

But I know where you go to, my luggage. Why I turn round and there you are gone.
You just can't forget where you come from. You're trying to get home to Taiwan.