When the first thing we were asked to make
required us to use solid gold, gold taken
from our former captors, it explained all
my expensive tastes.
My solid gold house
My fat wallet
My trees, bedazzled with
The groceries we order from
the solid gold market out of principle.
If our artichokes don’t cost double
that of the un-Godly artichokes
they’re not worth putting in our mouths.
Our floor tiles – made out of hundies.
My office chair – live sheep.
We put in an ocean as a wading pool.
The salt-water feature was extra but
I don’t have to tell you it was worth it.
One button and it parts, just so we
don’t have to watch the movie.
I could go on, but I don’t think they’re
paying me enough.
Not a thought given to where the
gold came from while human people
still wait for their forty acres and a mule.
You know, as I read this back
it’s starting to feel like overkill.
I’d like to melt down the golden menorah
and use the proceeds to spruce up Skid Row.
I’m sure we could make do with
something more modest.
We’re about to take a forty-year walk
and no-one’s even discussed
what we’re going to eat.