Le salon de cuiffure

Mon Dieu she shrieked, I watched him standing there,
Beneath the Gogh, the suit was Weatherill.
He sipped cognac (Eden de Gautier)
And on his arm some filly from Brazil.
You heard, of course, poor dear, she knew the drill.
What was she thinking: her dress, she wore Chanel,
The shoes, Vuitton, I thought were overkill
But then she smiled; I swear he almost fell.
Madame, the coiffeur calls please take the chair.
She feigns a smile, the fragrance tastes Patou.
He’s suave, he knows, he gently combs the air
And asks, Madame what can I do for you.
She flicks her hair as if she’s in distress.
He knows she knows that men have died for less.

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