Sonnet #244

Alas the money runs away along the path

Where clever men set snares for money

And wicked men will club and take in wrath

And we all need the money, chase the money

We must follow and shout and grab 

Money is a misty ghost with eight long legs

It moves like water through the labs

Where pipes arrange the faucets and plugs

But once upon the ground so swift

The money runs down hills and melts

Into the air itself, and seeps into the snowdrifts

We chase the money, grab for money, feeling felt

And dissipation auguries and screaming in the wind

Where did all the money run? We lost it all; money wins