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Gord

Old Money

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Old Money by Gord

Gord

pools

Old Money

Poster of an omen, toking,
Dreaming by a plastic ocean,
Most fast forward, hopeful;
King of post, tasks chosen,
Still lives Midas, hands golden.
Lapland where they dig holes,
Smoke weed and dance poles,
Kings of the foal, antsy, cold.
The older they grow, though,
He loses his power, cowers,
Curses feeling, eats pantry.
Banishes his people of necessity,
Carelessly manages feeble himself,
Paddles the plastic ocean, relieved;
Departs common and flowers nothing.
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