by Eric Goldfarb and Celeste DeSario
 |
| The New York Times, November 10, 2026 |
If she says she loves your mind,
Ask what else she hopes to find.
If she says your chips are hot,
She may want the ones you’ve got.
If she tells you you’re a ten,
Ask for the numbers. Check again.
When you’re a billionaire,
You’ll hear nice things about your hair.
He taught machines to spot a lie,
To ask for proof and wonder why.
She slipped past firewalls with a wink,
He liked her far too much to think.
She said, “Your wife must be so proud.”
He said, “Could we not talk so loud?”
He paid for penetration tests.
She offered one. He said, “Be my guest.”
A high-tech mogul in a low-tech trap,
Blinded by a dance in his lap.
She praised his hard drive, stroked his pride,
Then asked what else he kept inside.
He’d made a fortune spotting flaws;
He dropped his pants without a pause.
She laughed at jokes that weren’t much good.
He thought, At last, I’m understood.
She didn’t need a Trojan horse.
He held the door for her, of course.
A billion dollars makes the news.
The same old mess wears cheaper shoes.
One person gets a private thrill.
Another gets the cleanup bill.
Eric Goldfarb and Celeste DeSario collaborated on this poem despite a minor disagreement over acceptable levels of indecency. Celeste insisted she’d read Chaucer. Eric reminded her that his 92-year-old mother reads everything he publishes. He also suggested they aim for The New Verse News rather than Letters to the Penthouse Forum. Celeste threatened to submit the unexpurgated version to The New Yorker under his name alone. Negotiations continue.
