Some people hold money like it was coffee in the morning, like a bottle of Bourbon in the night;
they hold it with stiff arms and stiffer necks, they hold it like a newborn.
Money has existed since men wore skins, when shoes were ragged on the feet of kings.
There are worse things than dying; there are worse things than hate.
Money is the sweetest evil, acidic in it's taste.
Some people spend money like it will never be gone; like a battered lover balanced on one leg
and bowing on the other;
they spend it like it was their lover's eyes, a love can be replaced.
A dollar or a dime can do more damage than a weapon crested with an arsenal of love in it's chest, waiting to
expose the whole town to the violence of dreams and the everlasting despair of infatutation's crystal fountain.
Money is a dream, like dreams it can explode
it can wither and die like a grapefruit put aside
for the meal that will never be eaten by
a mortal in their prime.
It is a dime sized hole that sinks boats, that sinks dreams.
Families burn, families scrounge angrily in the refuse of the day break.
Money will sink every ship; it is looser than lips wet with water.
A meal of love will bow before the promise of a fortune.