Speaks for itself ...
Music of Rich
Beneath solicitous streetlamps
a dozen matrons
ease themselves out of the Club.
Their legs, like clappers
in the stout bells of their skirts,
toll Money, Money, Money.
The men attending them
emit a balding glow
above pale, papery shirtfronts.
Fruit of Our Labors, they chant
in file along the sidewalk
under servile trees.
Who gave them the keys to the city,
these people as noisy
as pots and pans
but proud and not so serviceable?
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