Poetry: Rich, Old MenRich, old men are coming to town,Big bellied and mouth upturned with a frown,Hair white like ice that they wish would magically turn brown,Their bottoms so full of gold, the density would make them drown. The priests shall run now, sniffing bottoms to show them the way to heaven and away from hell,If Gold rusts, what can iron do? On such thoughts they never dwell,The asses of priests' overflowing with gold,When will the virtuous of the town become a little bold? Rich old man, falling for thick women in red stockings and gaudy nose rings,Sitting with their cocks hard with excitement, unaware of the knife the town woman brings to cut the strings,The lights go out and the gloves come off,One life is not enough, all you can do is scoff. Not easy to forget those curves, oh! The rich old men are hungry again,Put your garters on, go to the bedroom he calls his church, go get fucked again,The rich old men are burping now,In front of their Christ, the rich old men bow. They might get the fruits of their prayers every night,But one priest says, “In the next life, for food and for life they shall fight.""God is dead.” cried the sceptic,The rich old men laughed and threw a shoe at the man they knew to be the most pathetic.