Dollars in the Bathtub

In a flat in the Embassy district,
face-up, flat-out on the floor,
lies Ramon Ruiz Von Gepflicht
his toupee by an apple core.
His blue eyes look fixedly upward
at the steadily whirring fan.
His clothes are Boss and Armani,
and set off his perma-tan;
he might be an Argentino;
he could be from Paraguay
his passport says he’s Italian
and the picture’s another guy.
Piled high and green in the bathtub
is a half-a-cruel-million in cash.
Von Gepflicht won't get to enjoy it:
he may have done something rash.
A trail of white powder is shining
in a chandelier’s crystalline light;
but it’s doubtful the substance is talcum,
or the police will be here tonight.
It won't make the national papers,
as the public just don't give a damn,
it's only a Porteno fixer,
and their tears would only be sham.
If his wife gets here before sun-down
the bath’ll be emptied alright,
she won't have clothes in her walk-on,
as she runs for the Mexico flight.