If only I were flush with loot
I'd be a crazy old galoot.
From canyon walls I'd parachute
in nothing but my birthday suit.

At folks like you I'd cock a snoot
and smoke a smelly old cheroot.
My love and I'd be in cahoot
s. We'd raid the Women's Institute
and scoff their scones and jam and fruit,
and wouldn't even give a hoot.

Each day I'd try a new pursuit:
One day the tango, next the flute.
I'd turn back tides like King Canute,
to office bullies be a brute,
then solve the problems in Beirut.

I'd train my brain to be acute,
"Does not compute. Does not compute."

Oh, wouldn't it be bloody beaut?
Alas, the whole thing's really moot,
for I am damn well destitute....
Oh, shoot!