where you would not otherwise go.
It's Ugh season in Beverly Hills
Morning meeting's done, but not my lunch.
This place inspires my internal grump.
Nuthin says comfort like ughs, short shorts,
Egyptian cotton spaghetti strap tank
and a fine wool Burberry scarf.
Pink tie, periwinkle shirt with white cuffs,
collar & angel hair stripes.
So he's the one blowin smoke into my Venezuelan Arepa!
He appears to be talkin to himself, but no:
"Has ABC closed the door on that?"
Big haired frumpy matron in her black Mercedes sedan
pulls out the handicap permit
puts it on the mirror and off she sprints into Umberto.
I guess the meter was just too expensive for her.
Phil Spector look alike in new faded torn jeans
sports a luscious brunette on his arm.
How much does that Patek Phillipe replacement cost?
PC red wigged mullet, in buttery tassled loafers
wears that faux fir vest proudly.
In designer everything, her pants stop dowdy
too far above the ankle.
4 more in this parade,
purposely faded and frayed
but for Orange Hermes Birkin,
Chanel, Vuitton and Longchamp bags.
You won't see Coach here.
Even that maid in her baggy cotton tee
carries a Burberry bag.
I'm guessin that ain't a pop off either.
Red synthetic slinky tunic
cascades off her shoulder
rhythmically flouncing
to the tune she taps
with the wooden heels of her Tony Lamas.
Cream spandex tee stretched
transparently tight over perky breasts
padded and cooped up in Victoria's secret.
Pompom silk rose bouquets substitute for sleeves.
How did that limping Argentinian cowboy
in his big white Stetson,
polyester khakis and Nikes get here?
I'm done with my Reina Pepiada at the Coupa Cafe,
surprisingly reasonably priced.
Yum! I'm outa here!
This parking stub's gonna cost me more than lunch.
Hey, it's a write off.
Don't sweat the small stuff.
