Money oils the wheels of love.
Hand in glove
They go,
But no
Tis not true love. Tis a pale imitation,
A desolation, an invitation
For mocking laughter.

But after
The mirth dies,
The mocker secretly sighs
Over a girls’s perfect thighs
As he curses a rich guys luck
And thinks “I shall forever be stuck
In this rut
Where it is easy to be judgmental,
While the unsentimental
Rich man can
Buy the eye
Of many a wench.

Money’s stench
Is foul in my nose
But who knows,
Had I the cash
What actions rash
I might take
For the sake
Of a girl’s passing blue eyes
And her empty thighs”.