What will they say of you now, Trouble!
Dead upon your gilded pillow
The millions they did double
But this Maltese they could not save.
So go then, Trouble, to the Elysian doggy fields,
Where bones are thrown,
(The Queen of Mean awaits you there alone.)
And only the little people pay taxes,
And it’s always the Eighties.
Your mausoleum will be steam-cleaned once a year,
So you can make your boo-boos there.
The grandchildren they will come, to sign the book
And hate you.
You rode on private jets,
Billed to the business.
When she phoned from the bath,
You jumped at her wrath.
A replacement Harry you could never be,
But at least you were cute.
The death threats have ended now; find peace loyal friend!
If they trouble you, Trouble, you can fire them.
“I don’t believe Mrs. Helmsley is charged in the indictment with being a bitch,”
a lawyer once said.
But you, Trouble, were a good one.