It’s not that I’m flaunting my money –
My mansions are not very grand –
It’s just that it’s not very funny
When your name is dismissed out of hand:
Someone might think that I didn’t exist
If they saw how far down I’ve been placed on the list.
To you it’s a couple of squillion
And not much about which to bitch –
But for me it’s like riding a pillion
Hanging on to the shirts of the rich:
Your queen with her trivial sceptres and orbs
Could not grasp what it means to be snubbed thus by Forbes.
I know there are penniless fellows
(I’ve read of their rags in Hello!)
Who don’t own the wealth of bordellos,
Or gazillions of oil-wells. It’s so.
But this insult reduces me quite to a torpor –
They might as well print that I’m merely a pauper.
Wealth’s a competitive hobby,
Like wars, and religions, and power:
Probably I may seem snobby
And possibly also quite sour –
But how would you feel if dismissed for a song,
If they added your squillions up, and were wrong.