Emerging From An Indianapolis Limousine
That condescending smirk of a smile,
by Allan W. Traphagan
with a lovely girl upon your arm
looking like a daughter.
You have it all your signals send,
to me in muffled fits of laughter,
but a rich man need not be so
protective of his beautiful women,
because of his stacks of glittering gold,
they can't see how handsome and good
you are, because of it.
It blinds them and they give themselves to you,
You might as well be Quasimoto,
because you would still be treated
just the same.
You probably met her on the SST,
loaded with all those gold diggers,
searching for a wealthy mate,
high above in the stratosphere,
over the aquamarine curve,
of the Sea.