The Curse of the Purse.

Money of evil,
'Tis said is the root,
Money's a curse,
And deceiver to boot,
If such is the case,
It's incredibly funny,
This curse of the purse.
And the evil of money,
For man who invented
The coin of the realm,
Is merely the captive
Of Hoot at the helm;
For cash has created
Such numerous “needs,”
Like houses and trousers
And festivous feeds,
That man who created
Pestiferous pelf,
Must keep on creating,
Or end on the shelf;
The “needs” he's created
With cash are so many,
He's tied by the toe,
To the profluent penny,
And roped so secure
To his cash, as related,
He finds little joy
In the “needs” he's created.
He's nought but a weevil
Enclosed in a coop.
Forever performing
His wearisome loop,
For cash coined his “needs,”
And his “needs” need the kale,
It smacks of a guinea-pig
Chasing its tail.
And thus he proceeds,
Everlastingly busy,
Gyrating grotesquely,
And dazedly dizzy,

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Until, when he feels
That he's feathered his nest,
He finds all he craves,
Is an absolute rest.
And so, gentle reader,
Creators of “dough,”
Who made Man's existence
A wig-wag of woe,
I'd gag them with guineas,
A few at a time,
And thus make their punishment
Fit for the crime.