The world's full of faux millionaires,
Who try to impress with their airs
And graces, who constantly swank
Of how much they have in the bank,
Who select only privileged mates
And have nothing to do with estates,
Unless it's a property they own
And can boast of how much it's grown.
Whose interests are only compound,
And the likes of which usually are found
Exclusively in the best seats
At sporting events and such treats,
Where they sit and hold court, and they brag
Of their jets and their ill gotten swag,
Granted knighthoods for whom they might know
From Cambridge or Oxford, or even Harrow.
Look at me, see my wealth, what I've got
My luxury cars and my yacht.
They work every hour God sends
To accumulate more and more spends,
Which usually results in, of course
A history of splits and divorce,
So, for all they amass and accrue
I trump the whole lot, I've got you.