On his bed of gold, there lie the rich and his penny.
A proud lord, he knows eternal in his role – but weary,
Left seeking pleasure in manners simplest to twisted,
Laughing here and then for he knows little to be cared,
Yet dimly scared he and his wares may be found parted.
Pleased, aware, of his honored siege – which shan’t be shared.
But leave here the prosperous to the fair delights of his coin –

Further seats another gentleman of a not so similar kind.
A man among men, on throne of stone, bearer of a bare mind,
Rushing there, pointlessly ambitious, for a purpose that is theirs;
Happy when life has consent, miserable if given what to lament
At ease in a state such, content, rather, of his humble affairs:
Dreams of what he can’t, and in that of many not so different.
Now, may the populace not be disturbed in its smiles and wishes –

In the darker corner dwells one whom fate has not so fortunate.
Poor the way there is, frail on his wooden chair – not so desperate –
Alone to be starving and weak to the embrace of petty evil and vice,
Serene though in his world’s malice, for in this glimpses a vague kiss
Master of trifling bliss to praise a warm sky, sun to thaw a little ice;
Forget the morrow, anguish only for the next meal one might miss.
And so wanders the deprived, in quiet search of pleasure to treasure.

Take from the first his golden ease;
See him curse the sun and weep to the moon.
Take then his rule and penny –
Lend him the vulgar seat of the second –
See him hopeless crumble to labor
And early enough, destitute will succumb.

As he runs, rob number two –
Have him sit on a broken chair;
Watch him stand and protest,
Whine and call his destiny unfair.
As he hurries, grab of him a leg,
Attach the limb to a sturdy rope;
Captive in agony, watch him beg –
His peers to look down at the fallen –
And breathe his last in the pain of the starving.

Last and easiest.
The seat you have stolen,
The poor’s, that is,
And offered to our gent;
Observe now the weakened –
Left lying on the foul floor –
Spare out furious yelps.
As he crawls to the sky
Seize from him his beloved sight
And by all abandoned, to die.

Obvious truth has shun
Given to the other’s fame
The three have cried as one;
Hear them protest all the same.
Because in loss unpredicted
Man will find fate equally;
Matters not how high one’s reduced.

Stolen my penny, have you?
I find my leg tied to a wall,
But my view admires still true.
Yes, you may listen to my complain,
I will not perish though to your scheme;
I shall not ever crawl blind :
My affliction now is many’s dream.
That is, I can see through misery.