Money, jets, speedsters, race cars,
Fingers blazing, riffs, guitars,
Tornados, hurricanes, angry storms,
With piccolos screeching and wailing horns,
 
Restless clouds, racing ‘cross the sun,
With big black eyes and money on the run,
Moving up swiftly with the speed of sound,
Steaming inside for going outward bound,
 
Too hot to handle, but yet still dancing,
Like stallions running, but yet prancing,
As money swirls with the wayward wind,
In perilous skies where the devil has been.
 
Blessed money, where does thou goest
With thy clever sun, charging t’ward the west?
Here today in my contented hands,
Then off to somewhere, to uncharted lands.
Such is the saga of the money on the run;
Too anxious and unsettled to stay in one spot.

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