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(As sung in the minor flats and noticeably off-key
housing projects of lower-class society)
Lizzie Grubman took her Benz,
Backed madly over, sans amends,
Some sixteen trendy, clubbing souls,
Yet she was knocked down in the polls.
Still, upon seeing what she had done,
Was sore put out it wasn’t each one.
“It’s just my way to ethnic cleanse
The Hamptons of such lowly ‘trends,’”
Cried she espying the bodies bent,
“Damned right it was no axe-ident!
I admit it’s sharp, my S-U-V
(On the cutting edge of vulgarity),
But I never gave them dirty whacks
—All I smacked them with was Turtle Wax!
Which some, in their ignorant, low-class creed
Swear—ohhh! how these ignorants swear, indeed
‘What a strange thing to put on a steed!’
(So unwitting, they, in their low-class breed);
For what know such of prize equines
—Only look! to see how glistens, shines
His coat, my dear Mercedes-Benz
—The thoroughbred of equestriennes.
Oh, I own ’it’s a ‘thirty’ deed I’ve done
—Which I’d never admit were I thirty-one!
For who’d trust anyone over thirty?
(Though clean, and polished —and not a bit dirty!)
Near polished—and waxed—as well as my story
So why on earth should I be sorry?
How could I be sorry they bore the brunt
—It’s my all-time best pub-illicity stunt!
Yet the myoptic eyes of the legal eagle
Look upon it, aghast (as a pair)—ill-legal!”
Then quick! Lizzie fled from the scene of her crime
(Who wouldn’t flee such ill-is-it rhyme?)….
But, later that night, contrite, she returned
(As contrite as she could be so royally burned):
“Oh, mercy dispense, hear! my (innocent) plea
—Oh, who will mercy dispense upon me?
It’s only right, since I am royalty,
That you all should Mercedes-Benz upon me!”
She pleaded for all the world to hear,
(Delighted she’d turned it upon its ear)
For she, a true pub-illicitist,
A stunt like this would not have missed
For the world (the Hamptons even less)
For she was their very own princess
Who (they had to confess, since she’d fled the scene)
Just couldn’t have any more ownerous been).
That scene of seens, the Conscience Point Inn,
Lizzie ‘made’ with a smile, but no trace of chagrin,
And held it fixed as she shmoozed about,
For her conscience pointed not in but ‘without’;
“Yes, a conscience within does itself demean
Since the whole point of life is but to be ‘seen’!”
She declaimed with no conscience-stricken doubt,
Taking royal pains to point this out.
Now this Conscience Point Inn was in Suffolk County
Whose poor Hamptons folk, hopping mad, placed a bounty
On poor Lizzie’s head!—such a suit did bring
These folk, for their pain and suffering,
Who thus fancied themselves fine dress-makers all
—And she a poor princess going to a ball
And chain!—yet had not a clean, decent dress
(So they fashioned for her a fine chic duress).
And, though poor in spirit, for all of their woe
(My God, how these poor Hamptons folk suffer so!),
They showed theirs to be no salon-thirstin’ burgh:
Their suit was by Alex Von Furstenburg
“Which we placed,” their first-in-burgh haughtily said,
“On one Lizzie Grubman’s wan grubby head,
Which proved, in the end, so upper high-class
That it hid not a bit of her high horse’s ass!”
And so Lizzie wore her princesstial crown
(For all of her victims she’d madly mown down)
More legal than regal—which so well did suit her—
“How fitting!” chortled the crown prosecutor.
But not lightly it lay upon wan Lizzie’s head
(A coronation which crowned her—with dread!)
For so heavy it came down, she reigned in a tizzie,
Did wan Pub-illicity Grubman, Lizzie.
Though gravity’s force left her pale, sickly, weak,
Still, the Pub-illicity Princess would speak:
“Oh, hear me white trash, and hear me trash all
—Who beneath Mercedes-Benz hooves did fall:
Came I this night to the ill-fated Inn
At Conscience Point wherein this sin
Upon my fair princesstial head
Was so grossly, so unfairly visited
—Imagine! despite I’m so royally born,
Unto me this slight was roily borne:
I reined in my steed with a horse-woman’s hand
(To a spot you’d have thought was a princess’s land
This ‘fire zone’ I commenced to construe
To be my divine, right royal due).
Whereupon unto me—oh, impertinent, rash—
There affronted me there some poor white trash
Who, in commoner’s terms, would—a princess!—reprove
For decamping there—and bid me move;
Aye, this churlish, bouncing body-busy
Bid me move my Hamptons-bred Tin Lizzie
(And since such trash I choose never to hear
I turned my best Tin-Lizzied ear
Unto him)…yet this trash went on to insist
To the point where I, sore prejudiced
Against his white, sorry-asséd breed,
Unhitched, right acidly, my good steed,
And in pique royale put the spurs to my ‘SU-V’
And, like any good JAP, sang out—So sue me!
(For, in heat, such things do not me abash)
So, I sang out more unto this white trash:
Sang out to him loud, oh, sang it most clear,
That he (the person to him most dear)
Might straightway, sans foreplay, this person seduce,
Some white trash I leave you to feely deduce.
Then, rather than listen to his trashy blather,
I whipped M-Benz into horse-frenzied lather;
And, though in full gear, I gave him his head
—Whereupon all his horses stampedingly fled!
They’re off! those hooves—how quick they did fly
When it came to me suddenly, well, by and by,
That each frenzied head followed—oh no!—not its nose
—But its alternate end—smelling not of the rose!
To this end: the white trash, and the like trashy masses
Were felled—by a lot of, mixed-up horses’ asses!
Yes, this—all this—I now freely confess
From the mouth of your own pub-illicit princess;
Yet, prouder confess (it’s my boldest confession)
I ply the world’s oldest, most useless profession:
A trade where we take words that lie on our shelves,
And lie about trash more than they lie themselves!
Oh, I know, I know, it’s hard to believe
Pub-illicitist me would ever take leave
With the truth—I know—it’s a thing to deplore
—But have I ever told you a falsehood before?
To you this comes down, each hayseed and rube,
To the victims (alleged)—God forbid, the facts!”
Though no ‘Beamer’ was Lizzie, yet Lizzie did beam,
So high beam—and mighty—did wan Lizzie seem;
So, intensely glaring was her indignation
White trash would kill for such wan ill-lustration!
Lizzie (now on her high horse, proud Mercedes-Benz)
Cried, “Benz is a charger, low-class citizens—
And together we two, yes, my dear Benz and I
Charge forth—with an army of charge cards—to buy!
And in so charging forth (which I’ve so late enlarged)
I do monthly (unjustly) expect to be charged;
And yet now—mercy me!—I’m charged with…assault
When some horses’ asses were clearly at fault!
I outfitted my Benz in naught but first gear,
So trendy it was—it went straight to his rear,
Which direction—at once!—he witless did fly,
Charging over the white trash while, powerless, I
Had no choice, like Virginity, sweet-blushing bride,
But to hang on—for dear life!—upon his mad ride.
Wherefore Justice—dear God!—must be out of her mind
—She’s charged me—with endangerment—the reckless kind.
Who the dickens once said that the law is an ass
Should have gone on to say it’s more blind than the mass:
Can’t it see—woe is me!—in the midst of my strife
That I’ve totally wrecked up my upper-class life?
And the blood-sucking media, surely they see
How much of it they take in—and from—me!
For that I, to that white trash, did smartly pronounce
He might go give himself asexual bounce;
And for mounting atop my Mercedes-Benz, red,
And for giving him madly, nay, hotly his head,
Who himself was so hot, was my dear, trusty mount,
That he reared up—and charged back—on his own account!
Though I tried, best I could, to rein in the wild beast
His rear hooves on white flesh did trashily feast!
—It was sixteen they say (by some aftermath count)
Now my legal troubles—I cannot surmount!
They’re in my grubby lawyers’ far grubbier hands
Who each, in their grubby way, my fate, commands
—Which, despite my horse-sensical Gee!s and Haw!s,
The law says I contra-veined its bloody laws.
True, blood rear-smeared (once) my Mercedes-Benz
(Which a de-tailing horse-wash did mercifully cleanse)
But, since he acted contrary to my commands,
Who could think this a stain on my wan bloody hands?
The truth is these trash had themselves to blame—they—
For naively putting themselves in harm’s way;
For it’s certain they knew, as does every child,
That horses, all horses are naturally wild;
And—how could they not know this ages-held creed?:
Such wild horses’ asses can’t help but stampede!
Thus, in a like two-legged tumble of hooves,
Their asinine counterparts—each of whom proves
The rule—have now stamped up to state civil court
And filed their neigh-saying incivil report
—Ai! because they, so witless, themselves have beguiled
This suit, so unjustly—on my head’s—been filed;
They borne away so upon their lowly litter
—How it hurts me they’re born so litigious—and bitter!
All because putting down trash (they’d good cause to see)
Is a duty I take pub-ill-literally
—And the word, too, of Jesus for did he not say
Unto all should thine ass so waywardly stray,
Turn to him thou the other, be it ever so right.
But such cheek they take—and so grossly amiss,
I cry out unto Jesus ‘Christ!—what cheek is this?
That they seek now to put coarse assault on my tail
So to throw my wan lily-white ones—in jail!
—And all on account of damned Mercedes-Benz
They seek—from my assets—by way of amends,
Such a gross chunk that it would relieve me, so sued,
Of much of my princessly pulchritude.
And now he, the white trash charges that it was I
Who, between us, caused sexual sparks to fly;
Says that running him him down—both in body and mind—
Is clear evidence I had a huge axe to grind;
And, in urging him, to love himself—something awful—
Was in essence a madam—and running a brothel!
Well now, daddy’s a lawyer and couldn’t be surer:
Says I must have procured first to be a procurer;
Since the plaintiff demurred to love himself, limp,
Daddy’s sure: ‘But a plain tiff!—my Lizzie’s no pimp!’
So I’m free! on twenty-five thousands of bail
(Feh! I spend more than this on one Hamptons cocktail).
While it’s true I was grinding an axe at the time,
No such weapon was found at the scene of the ‘crime’
—Which scene they say I unlawfully fled
So must awfully lie in my illegal bed
—Of my own making (with jokes now they’re rife
Knowing I never once made a bed in my life).
Would they rather I’d stayed—told my tale ex parte
—Be the sorry-assed last one to leave the ex-party!
So that they could confuse me, that fool police cordon,
With that trashy, axe-murdering tramp—Lizzie Borden!
God, you’re damned if you do—and damned if you dent—
So I fled the grim scene of the said ‘axe-cident’
—But not, let me add, before you demean me,
So many! had, ever so fashionably seen me!
“Woe! now here I stand—me, your wan darling Liz,
And (the smoke cleared away) what it comes down to is:
The poor broken bones of some poor white trash?
Yes, now that I’m broken (my poor ill renown!)
You stomp all over me—when I’m most down!
You bash me, you lash me, you fatally gash me,
Add insult to injury—tabloid and trash me!
Then, just when you’ve sucked dry my last drop of blood
—You drag my bloody-cum-Grubby name through the mud;
And this further charge now against me you bring:
That I must have been high to do such a low thing.
—Well, of course I was high (this in me you would scorn?)
Can’t you see I’m a princess—one justly highborn?
But you don’t see this truth—too, another I’m prizing:
Even bad advertising is good advertising.
Feh! little in life can one count on that’s free
—But one knows one can bank on pub-illicity;
So I swear, here and now, unto you—one and all—
Who so gloat in my from-grace, inglorious fall:
Pub-illicity won’t keep me down, willy-nilly
(Too long now I’ve knelt at its Godhead—‘Slick Willie’).
Before which God I now solemnly pray
That the powers vouchsafe me more power to say:
Who (so boldly!) once flew in the face of the sun,
A self-consumed phoenix of fall-from-grace crashes,
I, too—Lizzie Grubman—shall rise from the ashes!’
—World, arise, like Pegasus, swift-wingéd steed
And soar to high Heaven—at Merce-Benz speed!
And there (though I seem high and mighty, aloof)
Cause a fount to spring forth—with one strike of my hoof!—
From the Hamptons, the latter-day fount Hippocrene
(For that hippocrites there are everywhere seen);
Whence up from this fount, this fount of all muses,
Shall well up ambrosia which soon disabuses
All they who seek (vainly) to mount a high horse
And soar high above their so lowly life’s course;
Yes, all you who live shall yet live to see
This chilling-cold stream of pub-illicity
Which forth from the muses (the critics) shall burst
—From which you shall drink oft, and nevermore thirst;
Oh, but hunger—yes, hunger as never before
(Though you eat crow from this day forth evermore)
When you see me—reborn, so-o-o divinely re-done,
And resume my rightful high place—in the sun!
The new Lizzie Grubman, yet higher on Benz,
Charging madly—ass-backwards—the Hamptons to cleanse,
You’ll cry, in the midst of each low-born lament,
‘This, Lizzie, is no bloody axe-ident!’”
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