It matters little, dearest reader, who you are,
or what you have or if you’ve got a car,
or (say that you do) what is its color or make
or how quickly it slows to zero when you brake.
And no one cares about your sign or star.
It matters not (if you’ll so let me intervene)
that no one cares to listen when you vent your spleen.
The world is one to you and one to me.
If you agree to this, we’ll let each other be.
(The river I walk along is the Hippocrene.)
It matters quite a bit who’s got the bucks
and just how the gold gets loaded onto his trucks.
It’s him that we’re after. I don’t care if you’re queer.
We’ll split the dough and buy ourselves a beer.
If we don’t put our ones up soon we’ll all say “shucks!”
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