An Avarice Moon
An Avarice Moon
The avarice moon is high tonight,
a forked tongue's bizarre delight.
Loose lips will never hesitate
to speak in fashionable hate
about the how and why of those
whose fortune only grows and grows.
I guess we just don't understand
in the same way those people can
that sometimes two and two are six
and take away one does not fix
the likelihood of spending time
computing widths of bottom line.
Success is found proportional,
the door in kind to the portal,
passing from naught into vision.
While have not’s foster derision
the haves are boxing Astroturf
without a thought of rippled surf.
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