Lucre

'Though green and wrinkled in a wad
To modern man thou art a god.
From humble tree along a hill
You now incite some men to kill.

As lives are spent in your pursuit
To some is felt, art evil's root.
To others, panacea true,
The cure for mankind's troubles, you

'Tis you that makes the master, slave.
Commercial highways do you pave.
You feign to judge the worth of man.
And worse, the masses think you can.

O What repugnant filth you are,
Your kind, we should with fervor bar.
But now I'll pen remove from page,
As off I go to earn my wage.