When I was smooth polished stone
When I was unbreakable, indefatigable
I wasted the wealth of my youth

Spilling gold coins from my open purse into the street, stashing emerald bills in gutter cracks and the window sills of strangers, enemies, and friends

I never saved a dime

And it is time which has grown a face, laughing in fine lines traced by tragedies, one two three
In coffee black mornings and the long stretch between when the air is thick with hands grasping at the next order, the next order, the next order...

What am I to do with my empty hands
They say the devils work is idle.