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.