There is a nouveau sordidness that's growing by the day.
The rich are beached upon the sand; they're dying in the sun.
They drift around as lonely trash displaying their decay.
The males are flaccid, wallets full; their hair is turning gray.
They puff cigars, call out to girls, think cheating is quite fun.
There is a nouveau sordidness that's growing by the day.
The females flick through magazines that don't have much to say.
They recall times when they were pert and pretty and still young.
They drift around as lonely trash displaying their decay.
Their kids slay virtual aliens, glare glumly grim all day.
They cash in on their parents's dough when they turn twenty-one.
There is a nouveau sordidness that's growing by the day.
Their closest friend, the waiter, with golden smile and tray,
Is treated with vile snobbery; civility they shun.
They drift around as lonely trash displaying their decay.
Will someone tell the rest of us to send them on their way?
Their rubbish lives are mockery when all is said and done.
There is a nouveau sordidness that's growing by the day.
It drifts around as lonely trash displaying its decay.