Nouveau Riche Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

You say where there is smoke there must be fire
while pointing at the mansion I now own,
no man will stand here calling me a liar
a blackmailer, and crook, who's rotten to the bone.

I earned this money working in the ditches
and pumping poo from septic tanks each day,
a life of toil and forty years to riches
I'm seventy and old enough to play.

Not one dull dollar has been dropped into my lap
I've paid my taxes on the interest in the bank,
no lousy copper comes in here to pin the rap
onto my hide, and who am I to thank?

You say my Rolls and all the other motorcars
are not legit and that I do not have good papers,
and that my passport photo does not show those scars
inflicted years ago in the Mauritius Capers.

I can see clearly that you are a great detective,
and if the file you have in front of you is me
you'd surely think that I, yours truly am defective,
you want my papers to make certain I won't flee.

I do admit to it, but do me one small favour:
Stand very still right where you are and close your eyes,
I want to give a smallish taste, of proper flavour,
it is a Glock, and you may say all your good-byes.