High up in the air on a scaffold he rose,
Washing the Trump Building windows.
He whistled a tune that nobody knows,
And he saw the folks in their modern clothes.
Oh, there's pretty Mattie, with a chin so fine,
She's Harry's assistant in charge.
Everyone thinks she tows the line,
Not our washer, his view is large.
Then there's Debbie, with the right tight waist.
She's got her kids' pictures on her desk.
Straight laced she is, with a little pinched face.
But she smiles at our washer, if he makes a mess.
What he sees as he rides up and down,
Squeegee in hand and a bucket of suds,
Is more than you'd see if you paid for a crown,
Any Oscar-winner by the side is a dud.
Our washer whistles away, and he sees Trump too,
He may be a mere window washer, but he knew, he knew.
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Home: Writers' Early Spring 2004 Index