I walked up to the cash machine,
That sterile plastic confessional,
A personal prayer mat,
And I gawped into the screen,
As it became something of a reflection,
A seeing stone,

To this world we despise,
And how it functions under our watch,
I see folks smoking cigars of rolled up dollar bills,
Piercing veins with needles fresh from the contractual dotted line,
Cutting lines with credit cards,
That green currency has become a foul narcotic,

We all need it,
That nickel and brass addiction,
People bleed and die over this financial creed,
Throats slashed on Wall Street,
But money does not purchase happiness,
The only product it truly buys is discordance.

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