Writ Of Coin

You mean to tell me,
That this wretched scrap of fabric,
Green as envy,
Is the meaning of life?
The means of ones survival?

I’m to break my back for this writ of coin?
This imitation of worth?
To bear restless nights and foreboding,
Over its accumulation,
Must we sell our souls to the banker?

What ever happened to,
Art and triumph,
And love and joy?
Were they rendered obsolete during my sleep?
Replaced by this sickly green memento?

Work hard for scraps,
Your little jade tokens,
And watch others,
Those fat cats,
Grow fatter.

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