Where the Range Rovers grow

My eye, so ceaselessly cries,
For on this sunny Sunday afternoon,
My parents only care about trees and birds.
I want them to take me
Where the Range Rovers grow.

Where noses are stretched
At the smell of English roses,
Themselves inclining their heads
At the parked Mercedes Benz.

Don’t take me to the swans,
Let me feed CEO’s with eau de cologne,
See them fight each other with handshakes.

Take me to the place
Where everything’s expensive,
Except for the heir, that is free
To be whatever he wants to be.