A Sure Winner

Oh, treat me not with cold disdain,
My pretty maids of fashion;
Look upon the hearts you’ve slain,
And listen to my passion.

Though I am not so peerly proud
As men of higher station,
So handsome that the madding crowd
Collects in admiration;

And have, perhaps, too great a store
Of sandy hair and freckles,
I’ve mortgages and bonds galore,
And muchly many shekels.

You yet may journey league or mile
To wed, as you’re aware.
Come, cease your longing for mere style,
And take A. MILLIONNAIRE.