From the nature of what we ignorantly hail as comparative commerce,
To the stacks of dollars you keep in upscale apartment buildings,
Will you get past your own facade of money and public persona
In looking inward, at calloused soul,
Seeking judgment of what bears true value...

When Shkreli is dead,
There will still set puppet senators,
Spewing the filth which is evil and sponsored—
Regurgitating paid claims from which he too cut his teeth.

When along the life cycle does one lose their soul,
And if that's where you draw the conclusion that you're a man,
I'll conscientiously object from your vision of mankind.

The sun sets of empires, and you do not have one.
I don't have your wealth,
But both of us are sure to die,
Both slaves to fate,
Nothing left to buy out.

On the genesis of your ashes, your sins will not die with you.

In memoriam, only a kid who liked to play devil,
Just not as good at it as he thought.