The lives that they lived were the lives of kings
Though the blood in their veins was not royal.
The comfort and happiness that wealth brings
Is not always based upon life’s toil,
And the select few who strut these cities
Did not break their backs to build their roadways;
Instead, they pointed to the groves of trees,
Deciding that there the buildings would raise.
They would sit back with their glass of red wine,
Sighing while watching all of the legs run.
They’d brag at how their money made things fine
After the hard labor’s work was done.
But all this greatness was soon forgotten
When they were sealed in a tomb to rot in.
John Collings 