As a child I stole from my father and his mother.
It was heavy, florins, half crowns, pennies, shillings
And threepenny bits. Sixpences I liked, small,
Easy to lose or to hide in a sock. Money.

Not sure what it means but everyone gets excited
About it. Having lots of it means something
Though I am still unsure. Is that because
I have enough or because the sky is still blue?

Some things are free, the full moon
Hanging in the sky like a reproach,
The songs of the thrasher and the mockingbird
At my window, the mourning dove crying quietly.

Vegetation sings its plant songs free of charge
And the light fills the world on a regular basis
At no extra charge. It does not feel the need to steal
Only the urge to nurture or to decompose.

Copulating is free, except when there's a price to pay
But the bargain is unequal, ill contracted, ephemeral
For the consequence is life in all its inequalities
And for which there is no price, no reckoning.

Death is the final price we pay for being here.
Doesn't cost much, a couple of breaths, some pain
And then we're free to go around again.
Put your coin in, pull the handle, have no fear.