Money Song: The Capitalism Rag

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There is money
on your shoe,
under your nails,
caught in your throat,
staining your kerchief
when you sneeze.
You shit it, sing it,
spread it on bread
to eat for lunch.
Dream it, swear
oaths to it, by God.

Money, your life breath,
Money, your disease,
a perfect coffin.
Money to get your book
read, song played, drug
declared safe, bomb dropped
on hovels, your shell casings
spilled on the ground. Money
for your senator. Money
for your confessor. Money
so your ex will leave you alone.

Money at your head like a gun,
stuffed in your pants, up your ass
or under your mattress for a rainy day -
and shit, it won't quit raining. Money
dripping from your stiff upper lip,
spilling from your brown eyes, blue eyes,
green (like money). Money to weigh you down,
short-circuit your synapses, drain you of life
and replace your blood.

Money, money, money
turns the big wheel
and all good children forget
their prayers, or else pray for death
to escape the icy touch, the ghost-
touch, of money.