He shuffles his feet like the money he once flaunted
Green between his toes, a bar of soap he once afforded
Toenails overgrown like spades digging for gold
He walks barefoot his state of mankind receded
Soiled worst that the shadowy projection of his silhouette
The earth sends his hunched over skeleton a R.I.P. invite
Down on all fours like a dog begging for a treat, he accepts
Pleading to God for forgiveness through the teeth he rots
Extravagant choices on the menu at the French restaurant
He succeeded in expediting a quick conversion rate
Omelette to cheques; chicks to tips; Rands to Euros
He sits dreading the wasted indices he reduced to zeros
The man who owns the hour commands power
The fool who doesn’t cross his 8 Mile grows poorer
Funny how money is loyal until the last cent
Once spent, it leaves without even a trace of its scent