It is fickle wealth that
The Pauper sobs over,
Screaming with fury
At the fate he can’t alter.

It is superfluous riches
The Prince sighs over,
Raging with hunger
At his rival’s extra acre.

Necks’ sore with constant strain,
By each willful bend and break -
They fail to see the sun’s rays
And the gilded beauty of –
Beauteous Bouquets.