Under the scorching sun, Trimalchio was over

And the card house reeked with an odor

Of despicable hypocrisy within.

Hot whips of panic echoed the unfaithful sin;

Who does Daisy love, me or him?

A parallel discovery from Wilson to Tom

Spills a dark stain on the white wings of marriage.

The flurry dust of confrontation sends them home in wreckage;

Because of the golden girl

The yellow car gave a whirl

And a Myrtle there is no more.

Gatsby under the moonlight watching over nothing,

Has lost the Madame,

While the eyes of Doctor T.J. Eckleburg see it all happen.