An Ode to the Pompous Soul

I know not of why they seek green: to me it seems quite queer. This yearn keeps many very lean. While some seek to live with their leer, some live without a home: they have no graceful sheep to shear. The poor are left alone to roam all across the lost land. Soon, all that will be left is loam. Most show only the envy and hate with egotism. 'Tis useless, like the weathered sand. Greed and imperialism: this is all they contain. Downed are they with pessimism. 'Tis disease to those who were slain by the strength of the rich. It kills all of those who pertain. How I wish I could put a stitch into time for a day of no worry, to show the world That there is no possible way to be happy and seen as a force of the coming day.