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Poem

There’s this curse
if you end up 
with as much money 
as the richest man on earth. 

You’ll start to forget—
—forget about your fellow person,
and the one inside you. 

Your brain, once full of wisdom
and kindness, 
will turn to a paper-mache mush,
and you’ll start to act different—
—foreign to who you are, and
who you are will become who you were.

The world will start to have this
rose-colored tint,
and if someone wanted something,
they just have to work harder. 

They all just have to work as hard as you,
paper-mache man.
It’s simple. (Allegedly…)

In goes the labor,
and out comes the fruit!

…

There’s this curse
if you end up
with less money
than the poorest man on earth. 

You’ll start to see things—
—things the paper-mache man cannot,
and the earth will rot.
It’ll rot with a sweet smell. 
(I think it might be the paper-mache man’s mind!)

The smell will drive you mad.
You’ll say,
God, what an awful smell.
Is anyone going to do something about this?
And the paper-mache man will say,
Go for it.
And you will do as he says.
And halfway through the task,
the paper-mache man will stop you.

Wait, what smell? Why are you accusing us of this?
Aren’t you blowing things
out of proportion?
If you want it to change, at least be nicer…
Be complacent and understanding. You can’t fight fire
with fire. 

You’ll look at the paper-mache man
as if he has worms for brains. 
(He doesn’t have worms, dear friend, but paper!)
And you’ll ask: What can be done?
And he will simply shrug,
a dollar bill flying into his mug.

You will see it then.
The green cash floating down to the ground,
silent, it doesn’t make a sound.
But as the old saying goes:
Actions speak louder than words,
don’t you know?

…

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