For Those Who Can Pay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don’t really want to save the world.
I just want to buy a house,
And sleep within it with my mother-mouse;
And lie in the yard I’ll mow
My arms akimbo like a battered cross,
And pretend to be Clint Eastwood,
Or even better, Kate Moss:
Because this really is your world,
You’ll drive in it, and you’re the boss;
I just got lost here somehow- You see,
My ship hit turbulence sea,
And I was tossed, and the fleece was lost
And drowned and never worn again,
The beautifully golden shirt I used to roam
Around in, and grin in, and get laid in,
But why lament the hungry nature of each of
Your seven seas, neighbor?
This world should have a fuse in its equator,
And another world shadowing it for free like a weaker
Ancestor, both for our offspring and we,
Their progenitors. Because why shouldn’t we
Light it off, pretending to know where the best
Sales are in the corner of our universe,
Like beautiful women mixed with ash from
Iceland’s glaciers,
Breasts red from iron, who circulate the tectonic
Shelves of your woody playground,
And sometimes crashing up together to make
Blue-green orgies;
But its easier being a bachelor than one might
Think- I let the ice clink around the rim of my
Nocturnal drink, and lay back and lie and have my
Way,
And let everything else buy and sell and say
How much for everything, because its all had its day;
And there are far too many chiefs who have their
Beautiful harems, and used car lots, and sweet
Religious beliefs;
And I can watching the movers leaving with everything
That couldn’t stay,
Because on this blue semiprecious earth everything is for sell
For those who can pay.