By David Hubbard

Jaguar’s throaty growl, as he doubles the clutch
gleaming chrome and jet in passing street lights
Mr. Who all bangled in gold and a fox in furs
wealth drips from his fingers, the Midas touch

It’s no mystery where all the riches went
condensed in the floaters of one percent
carnelian clad in cabochon
entombed in towers of extravagant rent
costumed servants scrub out the tub
of his exclusive, island country club

Her uncle left them loads of dirty money
in a buried trunk with a gun and a monkey
sometimes it gets a little rough
when one inherits the Midas touch

Delusions of hard work to get them there
platinum and ruby tiara in her auburn hair
he sold short in an unbearable market
after stepping over his partners dead carcass
and almost broke a sweat that day
but that was just prelude to another big play

Mr. Who pulls the strings of The President
buys and sells the Generals he’s sent
and never seems to worry too much
as long as he has the Midas touch