Drank the best of foreign wines, that only aristocratic class dictates.
After, the men excused themselves, for cigars in the red leather hall.
Made from the finest lace of all.
Chased one another along the mahogany-lined corridors of passion.
Then they paired off, to lie in four-poster, satin-sheet beds.
For the time being, nothing of significance, came into their heads.
A bleak realisation of their employment fears.
The following comments are for "...the mice will play"