(above video for your reference only)
The dame tried to lift my cash like a hot air balloon. She had me with a look I could feel in my hip. She was a gold digger — she came at me fast, but I wasn’t a golden boy. I knew her story. I could see what she was going for and it wasn’t me. My scotch soaked jacket and cigar scented shadow threw her off my trail. I knew her story and it wasn’t a pleasant one. Just go dance girl, go ahead and dance.
This dame roulette met a guy at the Times Gazette. She had a purse by Chanel under her arm like a long necked gazelle. She called him a man because the cut of his suit. She could tell he’d had enough dames to fill a milk can. He told her, “not any bird will do,” and asked if she was the one. The psychic told him she would have the eyes of Claudette Colbert, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo.
He took her up to Hollywood. Pulled up in a washtub pretending to be a taxi. They had a bite to eat, but her wallet was thin as a toothpick. Her legs could make a bishop turn coy so he paid off the tab. She’s been around the block more times than a meat wagon on the Fourth of July.
Years later
I heard this dame popped out a kid with a face like a bucket of mud. The poor sap’s paying for it while driving around the valley, lost like an onion on a sundae. He’s flashing his smile on a newsreel for money. She was supposed to buy the kid a ball cap with this money. Instead she had her lips pumped like an allergic bee sting making her face look like an amputated leg on its way to the opera.
His lawyer probably pushed for a pre-nup. Her voice, smooth as a golden egg, disappeared the idea.
Years later
He finds out the kid wasn’t even his.
I’m not saying you’re a gold digger ma’am. You just want a man to smoke, but not to spot the flame. When his wallet gets thinner than his hair you leave. Poor guy’s trying to work his way up like Coolidge in Massachusetts. You don’t care though, you’re a gold digger.
Yes