I do not sit and sigh for wealth untold,
It never thrusts itself into my schemes;
I shrink from all your piles of clanking gold,
Better my sparkling hoard of golden dreams.
A life of limousined and jeweled ease is but a round of fathomless ennui.
Your motor cars, your pearls, your sables, these are naught to me.
Better a homely flat in Harlem's wilds, than a costly living's spurious benefits.
Better a simple buttercake at Childs' than caviar and stalled ox at the Ritz.
Your unearned gold to me, is shot with flaws; A life of honest toil I'd make my lot.
Which really makes it very nice, because it's what I've got.
El Quijote - *VANISHING* After nearly 90 years in the Chelsea Hotel, the great and wonderful and gorgeous El Quijote is closing on March 30. Eater reports: "Staffers...
19 hours ago