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We'll make riches flow from our pants-
"Come, now, Doctor... let's make them an offer
of wealthiest homes and numbers and figures.
-strap them down w'th our leathers and fingers!"

Watch as the stiches explode from our hats!
(This old ruler was never an edge
to count on, or invest the least bit of lint.
He'd never walk on your side 'o the bridge.
'never indulge in communal events.)

Gaze at the picture of britches in rags!
(No, we've no need of your filigree'd tables;
or desklamps, or barstools from barbaric fables.
All we want is our guitars and cables-
with amps and voltage to bother our neighbors.)

The Doctor replied with a raised lower lip-
"they really won't need any of this."
And He stormed, no, strolled rather- out of the top
of the gold-plated castle with diamond-clad cops.