Come, sit with me

Underneath the money tree.

Mr. Richards claimed it doesn’t exist

But I really must insist

Under its shade I gaze up

Hoping it will fill our cup.

But it has not been watered,

And its leaves begin to wilt

Poisoned by our individual and collective guilt.

It no longer blossoms rooted in our pink sands

It now grows much better in the Cayman Islands.