She’s gone to meet her fancy man.

They lie beneath his ceiling fan,

Which cools them down if things turn warm,

As they whip up the coming storm.

 

A fancy man’s love knows no bounds,

When measured in enjoyment’s sounds.

Sophistication boost his charms,

As she dissolves into his arms.

 

She’s aching for her fancy man;

He told her that his name was Stan.

She hasn’t seen him for six weeks;

By now she neither eats nor speaks.

 

Elegant when shod and suited,

His technique is deeply rooted.

What counts is a veneer of style,

Cheap knowledge and an easy smile.

 

Where has he gone? She has no clue.

He may have found somebody new.

Though he’d no cause to be annoyed

With all the effort she employed.

 

Years later, she caught sight of him,

His latest lover tall and slim.

They had just made a trip to Thebes,

And spend their winters in Antibes.