MONEY
Money is a prostitute
From one hand to the other
The more of her we have
The more of her we want
We give our all to her
She can’t get satisfied
We trap her in a bank
She flirts with all the bankers
For she has tasted better hands
And must still taste more hands
From street boys to president
She builds a network of customers
Until her days of menopause
When younger notes squeeze her below the pause
