Poet-Ing for Dollars

An Investment

           

 When I was young, soft in years,

I thought it good to pray

that someday I could wash my tears

with gold bought on my way.

 

So like a wise investor,

I read and talked and grew

to be a bright-schooled jester

with moneyed ideas anew.

 

But mere ideas are not enough

to grow soft and fat upon,

so I searched and begged for stuff

for when my youth was gone:

 

“I’ll take a bit of patience

and put it all away,

like an old man and his sixpence

saving for a cool fair day.

 

And once it’s sat there safe

for twenty years or more,

I’ll take it out, then I’ll wait

‘til time unlocks its door.”

 

Interest it has made such

as no broker’s ever seen—

the waiting’s now worth so much

that doing’s turning green.

 

Now that I’m old and tired

my tears are clear as lead,

and gold is scarce and uninspired.

My patience has gone to bed.

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