Well, my daddy said just before he died,
Son don't live on the Upper East Side.
It's a terrible fate, Fifth Avenue.
They'll beat you til your blood turns blue.
Onward upward you go your way
To Andover and a Harvard BA
Get you a job in a Wall Street firm
And make full partner when it comes your turn.
If you want to get in the society column you
Have your wedding at St. Bartholomew
Up the slippery slope you scramble
And die and are buried by Frank Campbell.
Women who live on Park Avenue
Are all fifty-five and still a size two.
They buy all their clothes from France.
They look like they've had face transplants.
Your stockbroker will play you false.
Real estate agents won't return your calls.
Love's not given, it's only lent,
So your hairdresser is your very best friend.
The children are raised by English au pairs
To teach them to talk like millionaires
The nursery schools have a waiting list
And every child has an analyst.
The markup's right around a hundred percent
You pay ten dollars for Pepsodent.
The neighborhood is all culture and art
You have to drive to Poughkeepsie to find a Walmart.
There's charity galas and charity balls
To raise money for cancer or the Taj Mahal
You sit there trying to look enthralled
And thinking, Thank God for alcohol.
Well, my daddy said just before he died,v
Son don't live on the Upper East Side.
But if you must then then get a suite
At the Carlyle on 76tht Street.
If you're going to the dogs and going to hell,
You may as well go in a nice hotel.
With nice sheets and fresh flowers
And there's nothing like room service 24 hours.
If you can't be honest and plain and rural,
If you've got to spin in the social whirl,
Then live on champagne and caviar
And when it's time to go, they'll send a car.