A poem
by Robert Hindle
My need for power
For money I breed
Under my tower the weak will cower
To my deaf ears they plead
I have sown the seed
All encompassing weed
In this sweet hour fulfill my deed
The smell of a flower turns sour.
If it causes those in need to bleed
Provides with nothing on which to feed
Oh beautiful powerful people decreed
Is that indeed which feeds our greed.