You say money is the root of all evil
But you, look at you--
Whose very feet are growing weeds
And you yourself a flower even two suns couldn't bloom.
You, who grow poison out of the pathetic mouth you call a garden.
You, who say money is the root of all evil--
Whose sinful hands cut down all the trees that bear my fruit.
It's you, you, the root of all evil is you.
Don't believe me? Ask the moon, who weeps every night for the sun that has to set upon you.
Fiction, poetry, and all that good stuff . . .