No, no, no, no, no, no dough, dough, dough, dough, dough, dough.

I am poor, not rich,
but for you I have got the itch.
I am poor, not rich;
that’s a problem and it’s a bitch!
I am poor, not rich,
I feel blue, as if sunk in a ditch,
but I’m being truthful in my pitch:
I think that I should split.

In a café, I’d like to tell you right away:
My heart beats for you like I’ve run an 8-mile relay.
(alt: My heart beats for you like my hand where it’s wont to play.)
But I’m poor, not rich
your future to me you shouldn’t hitch—
someone from your coterie might snitch.
Mores are just bullshit!

Steps, steps, steps, steps, steps, steps
off they’d schlep, schlep, schlep, schlep.

Maybe someday, I’ll have more than a little sou.
Hold it! Now we use the Euro. I must be nuts too.
My coherence—shot. And my head and body are quite hot,
like a fresh-baked pie with ice cream naught.
I’m feeling mighty sick!!

Speed, speed, speed, speed, speed
for force-feed, -feed, -feed, -feed.