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(With apologies to Robert Robinson)

Come thou count of every blessing,
Let me grant myself a raise;
Streams of revenue unceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Prone to scheme for all my money,
Prone to brag of all I do;
Here’s my land of milk and honey,
If ‘twas yours, too bad for you.

Here I stand like some old geezer,
Knowing I am all I’ve got.
If you envy all my leisure
Then you know what you are not.
If you have no Winnebago,
If you have no country club,
You can sup on stone-cold sago —
You’re a loser, aren’t you, bub?

O to Visa what a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be;
If, my wife, I’d never met her,
Then my credit would be free.
Prone to squander, O I feel it,
Prone to lose the funds I own;
Here’s my home, O take and seal it
In foreclosure for my loan.