moneylust

It's all about how
I've always hated money,
the sordid smell
of money, the dirty feel of
grasping hands...
the cannibalism of capitalism.
Here are the pennies from broken bank
and broken back,
our precious hours earned back
they press their faces against piggybank glass and insist they will
add up.

These big ideas of men,
big ideas made paper and ore worth
ten mules,
a harem of women,
a week's worth, a rationfull
of grease-bacon for the griddle.
The trick of the timeless con, this
idea of worth, this
economy.

I remember gathering gold in
days of racing greed,
not knowing why I wanted these things I
wanted so much.

why do I punish you
for doing the same?

I can think you wise or foolish
I can wish your days and dollars short
I can rage against all these
things
and it doesn't really change anything
but my own
moneylust.