Dripple, dropple, thousands.
A shower of shining liquid gold is pouring off of you.
Like Carrie at her prom with pigs blood
you are drenched in yellow sap
dripping and seeping
making a puddle of 24k.
I have to touch it to believe it.
I put my hands on you and collect the thick, gooey money.
My hands are covered in luxury
I blow on it and it changes to dust
like in peterpan.
Yet you do not fly.
I sprinkle it around the room.
No chance of poverty upon any of us.
You make me go back
to the place where you sat me.
I wipe my hands on the desk
smearing the gunk and powder of consumerism onto it.
Dripple, dropple, thousands.
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