So much gold there is.
So much gold around me.

Under my nails,
under my truffle of fat,
like dew, they cling onto each and every strand of my hair.

Like the ripples of waves, I may have gone blind;
for my vision has sunken deep into the pit of my sanity.

Shall I feed upon gold
or shall I step upon it and be proud?

Or wait, yes, shall I crown it upon my potato head
and call me a saint it is.

Why is it I balance upon this single rope called my fair lady
yet fail to look up
but my sight innate to the ground.

Wind may pick up my loose clothing, the cloth of a boat
and let just one walking breeze pick me up and let me meet
my dearest hell, or my goriest heaven.

I’ll shed Peters, and Johns,
and eye to eye dance Macabre.

So much gold there is.
So much gold around me.

I’ll munch and crunch,
I’ll blow and howl,
to make my presence clear.
For, I have not an intent
to be a mouse without its tail.