You make the bed you lie in

There once was a socialite keen, Who didn’t know Jeffrey Epstein — Just parties, you see, In old NYC, Where circles overlap in between.

No friendship, no ties to that crew, No Maxwell intrigue to construe — Just emails polite, Two hips passing at night, No scandalous gossip or clue.

Met Donald at fêtes here and there, Ghislaine at some gala affairs — No island, no flight, No role in that plight, No knowledge of rapes in the air.

So rumours and images fake, Are tales you’d be wise not to take — No witness was I, No truth in that lie, Just fiction the internet makes.

In New York is where I must stay Because hay makes me sneeze through the haze — I adore penthouse views, (lower case, unlike you), And Park Avenue store layaways.

But as for that holiday gleam, I’ll pass on the festival theme. Who gives a f*** about Chreestmas stuff? And on Cupid, on Vixen — Epstein.