Money Poem by Iain Prior

Money in essence is vulgar,
As sweet as the comb from the blossoming nectar,
Weaving a spell of necessity and hector,
To all of those whoever may have none,
In debt to the fact without it there's no home,
Opaquely elusive it morphs in the palm,
And slips through the fingers like a watery balm,
Evading the addict who's luck is to have it,
Deep in a vault with interest to stash it,
The wealthy swim in a sea of money,
Blindly indifferent to the needs of the plenty,
Breathless and feckless and tainted by money,
Drunk on the fumes of the milk and honey.