Oh, Money! Let me hold you in my thrall.
Caressing your sweet shape is paradise.
No matter through what dark abyss I crawl,
To have you when I want you is real nice.
Your grainy, faintly powder-dusted touch
And vaguely minty smell when you are fresh
Grow leathery when you’ve been handled much,
Your wrinkled softness wise almost as flesh.
The Freudians have called you excremental,
Romantics say you’re bitter and alone,
But I know you’re just coy and temperamental:
The hard-to-get are pleasantest to own.
I’m satisfied to take you from behind.
It doesn’t mean you have to love me too.
Ignore my passion. I don’t really mind.
I want it all, and that means having you.