I don’t know why I envy him.
I think that he should envy me.
He may attend a fancy gym,
look GQ cool, write poetry,
play the guitar, be tall and slim,
and get in smart night-clubs for free,
but, to my mind, he’s really dim,
the fool behaves impulsively,
goes off to Paris on a whim
and never hints at taking me.
He thinks me dull, he calls me prim,
he’s puzzled by my secrecy.
I may be short and hardly trim
but I’m a billionaire, you see.
Oscar Milde
