Cleaners

To have all the money in the world That was dropped onto the ground Every day, would uniform richness But that isn't the way it is Eyes glued to the pavement? Head hung to the streets? To every place trampled There it goes A poor, poor presence Trying to have it all Out of gas for everything Lucidly latched onto a hopeful head trip Wearing masks to guise dreams whilst knowing Its belly will not go up in flames. Penurious promise shall control all When the presence does nothing But observe.