An Investor to his Market

A poem for the writer's cramp about the market.

An investor to his market, or the birth of communism.

I still catch words of you from time to time,
When I clean car windows with the finance page;
When suited fat cats drop dimes
To unyoke their pockets of the weight of change,
Of which they wish their hearts could be as free.
But I, who courted you and found favour
In your frivolity, can see
A devil in the trappings of a saviour.
Yes, devil! Cash-dolling temptress --
Money is no sign of love, no gage --
No troubadour has sung the distress
Of this greedy love, nor the rage:
         I'd kill you if you weren't like to a god,
         Or if I were better than a begging sod.