God money see the whores’ reverie,
legs spread wide, can you see?
Working, working for the Gucci bag,
Grotesque beings, less doll and more hag.
God money look at the assholes’ rendezvous,
bent over, soap dropped ready for you,
Mus have the status, must have the gold,
it doesn’t matter that they’re decrepit, old.
God money your children cry and wail,
once your ship of doom eternal sets sail,
see these pathetic fucks crying a river now,
not understanding the why, the who and the how.
God money that’s why I’d rather be poor,
I wish to be free and not be trapped in the moor,
so walk out of my life, close the door,
I’m not your slave, I’m not your whore.
© Laura Moon
All poetry and artwork in my gallery is copyrighted to myself (Laura Moon ). None of the work may be downloaded, reproduced, edited, published, printed, transmitted, uploaded and used in any way, shape or form without my written permission and consent.
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