In halls where whispered stories stay,
Where leather cracks in soft decay,
The scent of time, a silent grace, Wears lineage like a silk embrace.
No need for gold that shouts aloud, Nor jewels to gather up a crowd
Just linen pressed and cuff unshown, A legacy one wears alone.
Between the books, the bourbon, wood, A quiet pride in all that’s good.
Old Money walks, not just to be
But to remind what it means to be.