The pleasant smell,
Of the crisp,
And the green notes,
Fresh and raw,
Taken out,
From the bank,
Attracts the,
Billions and trillions,
Of people,
Bourgeois and affluent,
Who slog hard,
Day and night,
It produces ego,
In those,
Who possess it,
And envy,
Who do not;
People can murder,
People can die,
People can forget,
Their own,
That is,
The power of money,
That makes,
Some feel superior,
And others inferior,
Of their species;
It can make,
As the,
Bard of Avon says,
The lame walk.

© Srishti Sharma

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