My profit
slaughters children
and strokes the hair
of their broken mothers.
My surplus
builds bombs
and threatens insubordination;
mass murder
if your ideals deviate slightly
from men lacking retinas
in lavish suits.
My excess
has never fixed a pothole
or fed the starving,
but
imbibes blood by the gallon.
How strong I am!
And all this
without consent.
My bottom line
gets stolen weekly,
and death is guaranteed.
Of little consequence;
God assures wealth
in love and gratitude.
Sigh it together now.
Increase my yeild
to drive faster,
keep time on diamonds,
seduce woman more beautiful.
I\'ve longed
to pelt the worthless
with solid gold bricks;
confessions of a choir boy.
I\'d sell my soul, and
you\'re a hypocrite.