The bottom of it all remains mere money,
Yet money is the root of many sins--
The fact of which I do not find so funny,
Because God’s light, which otherwise seems sunny,
Were clouded by men’s greed. It makes me wince.
The bottom of it all remains mere money,
Yet money kills the dreamer, so when done he
Has lost potential that was paladin’s,
The fact of which I do not find so funny.
It kills imagination: soft hills dunny
House factories that spew an evil rinse.
The bottom of it all remains mere money,
A kind of filthy silt, viscous not runny,
By men drunk, though revulsions it evince--
The fact of which I do not find so funny.
Man’s sinful nature thus makes man a crony
Who might have been a friend. They fill their bins,
The bottom of it all remains mere money--
The fact of which I do not find so funny.