I just bought the house of an old senile geezer,
who got caught with a lot of reptiles in his freezer,
the lease here says no trees here in the back garden,
not the party-pleaser, still, i should never have thrown my stacked cards in.
But my home is my throne, and my heart hardened when i first saw Caesar
on an antique coin i found in the attic.
Dramatic tactics abound,
but what freaky sneak hides majik in a loincloth closet?
Now a joint, i could see the point, he might've lost it,
it would've turned out a head if we immediately tossed it.
I repeatedly crossed the pavement
to see how much this engravement cost,
but the pawn shop boss tried to con me proper,
but i'm on top of her petty trickery,
"Betty, you think i'm thick? Me?"
Wary, i begin to carry my treasure to a measure scary,
i vary my routes each time i leave the house
like they teach the stout who bout with the mafia,
but my goals are loftier,
i know in my soul this object is special,
install metal detectors though my sector's now dirtier then a mess-hall,
i'll bless all
living by giving my all to this coin's preservation,
toyin' with reservations i assess my situation,
stress, i need a vacation, but that leaves the place blatantly vacant,
so, just in case, i bust out the shovel
hobble out of my hovel
grovel to the currency,
and currently it’s buried.

Chorus:

Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin,
“Watch the Money Go Round”

Of course i return two days subsequently, sweat dripping from pores,
gripping the door, grub went quickly out of my mind,
i open the blinds to be reminded of the blinding light of a penny,
But i see many, mene, mene,
Plenty of peeps sweeping the lawn
fondling the circular discs at Herculean risk
whisked away into a bloody lust,
i see a body bust open with bullet holes,
the one who pulled it's droll,
talking about control,
but balking at a self-dose,
stuck to the buck like fuzz to Velcro,
or the Fuzz to a buzz about where the Angels called Hell's go,
i fell to
floor, thinking about the seed i adored,
the need for more,
and the four stories of a glorious tree raining money for me.
Shortly i'll abort the attempt to preempt my green-stock,
and any intent to Jack my Beanstalk,
who's got my back?
well, i can still hear the demon talk ...
“The love of me is the Root of the Tree”

© Headcleaners 02: Headcleaning, Delegates of Culture, 2002.
Words © Cyril Guérette for P(r)o(ph)etic Productions.