He's the poor man who profits by lies over the truth
Agile speech tangles like an old spider weaving untidy strands
A corrupt heart held behind glossy veneer reeks like a rotten tooth
Failing memory grasps and misses the details of plans
Flatteries that once spread like jam now sound uncouth
Forgiveness for passion's games is forever tied to youth

He's the poor man who sold his soul for baubles and gold
It is a cold vault holding a heart both hostage and guard
For jewels lose their luster as covetous eyes grow old
And gold will not heal the heart that is scarred.
The bard's dragon is trapped within his bejeweled hold
Small value are baubles and gold to a soul already sold 

He's the poor man who curates his own doom
Taking his chances with sloth and decay
Weaving the fabric of his life on a crooked loom
Can't tell the blessing from the trash as he tosses it away
Painting with scraps of his day on the walls of his tomb
As the layers of his life carpet his room.

He's the poor man who pursues immense power
But someone somewhere will always have more
Death will claim his place within a short hour
Forfeiting everything he stole from shore to shore
Sweet victory will turn sour
There's no safety in the bower.

Shall we set the liar to lie once more
Shall we feed the greedy forever more
Shall we toss out our best for more
Shall we empower those demanding more
Or shall we push them out the door
Our patience well over with their uproar.