How poor a thing
This rich man is.
A hoarder,
A gatherer of wealth
Never spent
On anything of value,
Merely added to
For no other purpose
Than the increase itself;
Kept for himself,
His vulgar boats,
His mean queen,
His flunkeys and footmen.
I bet they
Spit in his soup
And piss in his pot
When he is not
In sight,
When he is away
From his golden throne
Busily shitting
On the little people
He hates so much
But whose money
He loves so dearly.
How can he not see?
His memory
His very name
Will be reviled
Will be spat upon
By those little people
By all people
Forever and ever