by Ian Johnson

Now I, who spent my life amassing wealth,
Lie in repose on a hospital bed.
And though I guarded zealously my health,
I here confront the thought I’ll soon be dead,
My wealth disposed of and inherited.
I delegated life to those below
Me, the exalted sales committee head
While I diligently maintained the flow
Of presidential portraiture into
The company vault. Serving lords I cursed
For decades wore my earthly tenure through.
Of all sins I name Avarice as worst:
Would that a demon took my soul in thrall;
The Market took my wallet, soul, and all.