a moment's worth of thick and toil,
an era grown in barren soil,
i could not have gained a step or fallen, verily;
no more, or less, than painted paper,
the grim reaper, an undertaker,
i know you well, oh ye, monetary.
starless nights spent avoiding your existence,
only to embrace you with arms resistant,
for who else to ask for help? not god, obviously.
because as with everything else (at least which matter),
what makes men sick and the better, better,
who else? oh ye, monetary.
a bar of gold, a grain of rice, a goat with a hundred ticks and lice,
and education, a baroness, everything that mom said was priceless,
when quality counts for more than quantity?
what buys fear and tear, and makes us find comfort in beer,
that also makes and breaks, that gives and takes,
oh. ye. monetary.
and with this strength that i write, one that ebbs away, i find i cannot take what i do not bear to say,
to this breach of integrity, for what i have always believed in, you take in a second, still i say 'nay!'
oh ye, monetary.
- written in a spur of pure inspiration, as i was tending to guests in the living room. 6.15pm