or even most of it--that's just a fact.
My pockets aren't a never-drying font
of golden coins; my mattress is not packed
with Franklins, hidden from you out of spite,
or some perverse desire to kill your joys.
I don't withhold from malice--though I might!
Fit punishment for greedy little boys.
In truth, the little money that I make,
left over after mortgage, bills, and food,
I freely give; you just as freely take,
and call me stingy when it's gone. How rude!
One day you'll have a job, and understand.
Till then, for answer take this empty hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment