Time is of no moment.
With money, idleness is the ultimate virtue.
Supreme, lethargic idleness.
You know this,
young fool.
You’ve seen my crystal ball,
young fool.
You’ve seen yourself,
young fool:
Sleeping on guided tours-donning pricy blue bathrobes-reading the pressed sunday paper-fearing to leave your steel birdcage-afraid to empty your putrid garbage-queer eyes slit with panicked suspicion-suspecting the world of treachery-at the sterile bank disdaining dirty hands…
Money aged you,
young fool.
Young-old fool.
I see a moneyed youngster.
He is tame and reliant,
Timid and scared.
Helpless streams crease his eyes.
Yet he knows not why he weeps.
Burning tears wash away his youth.
Only dry resignation remains.
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