The corporate megastar with his million
Dollar Rolex on his wrist grips the bottle
That he sells for infinite profit
Because the elixir shares his name

The marathon runner, with only six miles
To go showers himself with liquid diamonds
They ping against the tarmac and roll
Into the gutters unnoticed by the greedy crowds

The craftsman briefly coats
His calloused hands in silver to rinse them of the brick dust
As they dry they lose all value
But it’s a loss he doesn’t have time to account for

The clouds ***** out riches
But the public complain

The daughter of the busy housewife
Gratefully crams her mouth with elephant ****
Her filthy hands beckon her friends from the huts
She poisons herself with the bucket between her knees