Poetry

Recycle Me 2

written by: alf hickey

A silly sausage, yes am I
For the world it tells me so
That I need to be a dollar
To be ground up, so they say

So turn me inside out
Roll me through your press
Mint me with your stamp
I want to have your worth

It works for the Queen
Her head on every coin
If I can be converted
This world is quite perverted

I could be in every dollar
And some of me in cents
Then I would have a function
Purpose, use & relevance

Melt my fat to make your diesel
Brush my blood, upon your easel
Oh yes that's right
I'm just a weasel

Feed my soul to your machine
I'll turn your stocks a cow poo green
The bullish market with its horns
To gouge what once was only thorns

The bear will tear you limb from limb
Ching ching you, from rim to rim
Slotted as the slot you are
Your atoms to one big bazaar

I'll become your God your dollar
Morphed into an ATM walla
I feel your fingers and your pocket
Plug into your heart's own socket

Recycled into your cash
In crotch pocket dwell like rash
When dead I'm reincarnated
Under money you outdated

By default your soul is dead
Bleeding into thousands red
All life to the mainframe at the bank
Saviour WallStreet God I thank

Squash my head into a coin
Crush my soul into a note
Turn my neurones into numbers
I want to live forever