She was haute couture, a vision,
With expensive taste to match,
But dare I cross the social railroad track.
Private school no doubt, no end of social clout,
But once I made my choice no going back.
They greeted her at Harrods,
Cardin would bend the knee,
But I was just a common working lad,
Chanel and Christian Dior, dare I cross the social floor,
And could I meet the price if things went bad?
A silver service maid,
She knew her social mores,
But I was gauche and clearly out of depth,
I knew not fork to choose, she said tipple I said booze,
Of private means whilst I knew only debt.
She turned heads on every entrance,
Green envy was my fate,
Her smile was wide as was her broad-brimmed hat,
I was not the Ritz, Savoy,
But a common working boy,
And nothing that I said would alter that.
By the way I said to her, what does your father do,
A politician false with blood on hands,
From war and plunder, loot, he’s a liar and a brute,
The only class he knows is dollar shaped.
But if you choose to honour, to ask and marry me,
Then I shall cross to you the great divide,
He will taste the bitter fruit, his shares in bitter loot,
But I’ll know love and be your lifelong bride.
Michael (Walsh) 04.10.2013 quite_write@yahoo.co.uk