His head lies in the sunlight
grease-paint and mascara smeared in flecks,
passed-out upon room 5's windowsill
whilst all around his friends frolic and have ***

he stinks of Michael Kors'
with his designer suit and dip-dyed hair,
he thinks the girls dig a guy in a suit
but sadly they simply don't care

for class is overrated, manners belated,
he went out looking for a bit
instead he threw up on the karaoke machine
and now he just looks like a ***

disco lights schizophrenic, blinding,
covering his face burning with embarrassment
simple childish fun curdled sour
stumbling through a crowd hurling harassment

passing by drug abusers and rich fixers
taxi cabs beep, run-down and stained,
prostitutes sell in ***** horns and bunny suits -
his need's dire but his wallet's drained

for money can buy pretty much anything
but with one tiny exception -

no amount of printed-paper notes
can buy a life of true, honest, perfection.