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(A modern variation on the theme of C. S. Calverley’s poem Love)

Celebutantes and heiresses are socially above me,
And yet, Miss Hilton, I confess, I yearn for you to love me.
I've read in Forbes, as well as several Wall Street Journal pieces,
Your riches are compared to those of Solomon and Croesus.

Oh, don't think I'm a shallow sort, just grasping after pelf.
The truth is that I love you, Paris, only for yourself.
I've little to no interest in acquiring worldly goods,
Or living lapped in luxury in ritzy neighbourhoods.

Though blondes have never been my type, not natural or bottle,
And though I prize a girl with brains and you're no Aristotle,
I'm nonetheless as drawn to you as is an ant to honey.
Whatever the attraction is, it's certainly not money.

I'd like to recommend myself as tall and dark and handsome.
(There's no pictorial evidence, so please do not demand some.)
Despite the booze and cigarettes, I'm relatively healthy,
And you, from all that I've been told, are fabulously wealthy.

Your wealth is of no consequence, an incidental fact.
Why once more did I mention it, a flagrant lapse in tact?
A dearth of rhymes constrains the great poetical vocation
As strictly as that other dearth, financial compensation.

Marry me, Paris Hilton! I'm a good and honest pauper,
Albeit prone to crippling bouts of apathy and torpor,
Which render me a ne'er-do-well, an unproductive slouch,
More vacant than I'm pensive as I lie upon my couch.

Should you refuse to love me, then I don't mind being loathed,
As long as you are open to becoming my betrothed.
Our differences may mend with time, but if irreconcilable,
Petitions for divorce these days are all too simply fileable.

This brings me to my closing point. One matter's left to clean up:
An awkward topic, this, to raise − I mean, of course, a prenup.
Alas, I must inform you that if lawyers are deployed
To bring me paperwork to sign, this offer's null and void.