The Halcyon beckoned, after nightfall.
A vanity clad muse I chanced to meet,
who joined our group, while taking a call,
then blatantly took stock of our feet.
Prada Pusher has a je ne sais quoi;
Her accent, put-on, smacked of bourgeois.
Take pause to view what lies beneath,
Obscured below her inglorious sheath?
Sad, there you’ll find all things but love.
Chanel, Louis, Jacobs and Gucci
Spade, McQueen, Cavalli and Juicy.
But soul’s true contentment? That she’s above.
She’s an expert in rampant snobbery;
for Wharton does not teach humility.
Of worldly things was versed very well,
but, of goodly things she clearly knew not.
She read The Journal and knew when to sell.
And gave guidance the same to her tiny tot.
“Son” she spoke, “We’re materialists,”
For among our group of elitists.
Prada loafers you must always wear;
yes, even to preschool; make others stare.”
And oh! How she hates the winter recess!
Two weeks, stuck at home, with her own son.
“Dreadful! When will the shopping be done?”
She simply could not accept such distress!
So arrangements we’re hastily made
And caretakers, all handsomely paid.
She caused an attack of dyspepsia!
And her son only wears True Religion.
Because, you know, pants are indicia,
of good breeding! “We flaunt what we’re given!”
Our dalliance soon died as she described
The high end wines she exclusively imbibed.
Her tales resounded so sick in my ear;
I arrived at this lesson, please listen hear:
We must curb our wants, and guide our words
for fear our children be shallowly shown
that man be measured by what he may own.
For virtue grants life’s priceless rewards.
Our world can’t afford our children be taught
Happiness is a item, only to be bought.
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