Spendthrift
The man wants more than he needs,
He does not need, does not need
The useless, common,
Flashy toys that make a man
Happy in his early hours
Of instant, easy use,
But later regretting this,
This rush of possession,
Rapid, but fleeting happiness,
Like the lady who always comes to call
When summoned to monetary gain,
But vanishes without a trace
When greenery is gone.
The man wants more,
Never satisfied, never pleased,
Never content in the mind,
The heart, the soul;
He is never complete;
The light never reached;
The fruit never grasped;
He is the runner stumbling
A foot before the finish line
And never finishing the race
For he had died in his mind
And his bleeding heart.
The man gropes for the wallet,
Needing money, more money, always money,
To pay the salesman
For the opportunity to lose his mind
And his dollar to material society.
The salesman, taking the money,
Gives the man his regards and his change;
But behind a mask of customer salutation
Lies a subtle concealed grin,
Thinking of the foolish man
Standing before him, giving money,
When in future, he will do the same;
Another day, another week,
A month, a year, it matters not;
He will remain trapped in eternal
Repetition, as money earned is money spent.
Wordsworth frowns upon this mess,
In all consumed society;
He saw it come, he saw it go
And go and forcibly continue
To wreck the glory days
And last the reign of terror
Through centuries to come.