Fool’s Gold

The needy, speedy, meany man
Ran out to rob a bank.
It held much gold, much glorious gold—
For him, all his, to have and hold!

He’s robbed the bank! He’s robbed the bank!
He’s richer than a king!
Yet he must go a little slow—
“My, gold’s a heavy thing!”

The needy, meany, slowy man
Now totters toward his fate;
He didn’t full appreciate
The gold’s intrinsic weight.

One bag, two, he throws aside—
He values them no whit;
And still, with one, he knows he’s done;
So tired, he does sit.

The needy, meany, sleepy man
Has felt the cuffs go on.
The prospect of a Sing-Sing doze
Has rose in value—quite!

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