When I was young

When I was young (or maybe, five),

And glad, so glad to be alive,

Oh, how my fancy used to itch

To be – how shall I put it? – rich!

A millionaire, it seemed to me,

Was quite the only thing to be;

A millionaire or billionaire

Or trillionaire – let's leave it there!

Well, now my jolly youth is dead,

My pretty, infant fancies fled,

And here I sit and brood and itch

To be – how shall I put it? – rich!