Mr. Rich, Mr. Poor and Mr. Poet
Many a monetary thought

Mr. Rich, glee-filled, with money,
Owns his share of sweetened honey,
After years of having been a bee,
Felt fate had gifted a small fee.

Sacrifices, he had made plentifully,
Struggling with time and his family,
Waiting for results so very patiently,
Felt amply rewarded for his tenacity.

For the poor though, he feels no pity,
Knowing well, he couldn’t annul poverty,
Cares little for charity, saves each titbit,
Of material pomp, money stinks; gives a fit.

Mr. Poor, a crestfallen, sad being,
Blames the rich man for everything,
For his grief, his misery, his sorrow,
His pains, his torment, his life’s woe.

To him, Money is a heinous crime,
Believing it to be Evil’s dark root,
Pockets empty without even a single dime,
He’s gained nothing as labour’s fruit.

Money, he feels, is a curse – Devil’s desire,
Not made by God, he deems, in Whom he trusts much,
Its only use, he sees, in lust, war, a sinful fire
A tale of sour grapes, this sounds a touch.

Mr. Poet, he holds a gift, richer than Money,
Verses of love, nature’s romance, his honey,
To him this fight immaterial, rather funny,
His muse, his wealth, pens artful words so many.

Writing thoughts, ways of life is his sole duty,
Gained recognition from art, his soul’s reward,
Neither gold, nor riches, nor money’s pity,
None are worth, poetry’s glorious award.

He muses over beseeching prayers of the devotee,
Rich or poor, offerings to the Goddess of Wealth,
Realising little that love, wisdom, peace, serenity,
None could be earned, with all Money’s stealth.