He stood atop his notes and metal,
Staring out across his land.
A year away from a pension age he would not see.
It would take him a fair while, if he fell,
To land in poverty’s filthy fingers, but
They didn’t matter to him.
Let them eat cack,
While he ate…
Whatever the hell he wanted.
How he’d earned it was between him and his conscious.
We can’t judge a man on his wealth, but
We can judge a man on what he does with it
To help the world around.
At sixty-four he looked like he was eighty.
I suppose that’s what comes of worrying
About imaginary things like
Maybe he did worry about others. We don’t know what happens behind thick oak doors, after all.
Royalty borrowed his private machines, didn’t they?
That’s being helpful.
At sixty-four his heart could take no more
Mine could stop now, or
In the end we all die.
In the end we all take nothing with us.
It’s what we leave behind that matters.