Sing the song of Donald's golden hum,
twenty-two billion tokens, kingdom come,
a hive of numbers thick as plum—
the bees are drunk and here they swarm from.
Justin Sun put seventy-five to sleep
in a wallet dark and fathoms deep,
three billion coins that cannot creep—
frozen fiddles and frozen sheep.
O Tahnoun, prince of silica and sand,
five hundred million, sleight of hand,
forty-nine percent of wonderland—
signed before the oath, as planned.
Eric tweets and Barron creams in code,
the Witkoffs pave the private road,
Chase Herro sold the world a toad—
called it caviar, watched it load.
Folkman draws the blueprint thin,
moonmanifest moves millions in a spin,
seventy-nine point five and counting—grin!—
the tar remembers where you've been.
Money is a spell you cast on bread
and bread becomes a throne instead,
and thrones become the words unsaid—
but the bread was always bread.
Power tastes of copper and of rue,
it stains the tongue a gorgeous hue,
it whispers: everything I touch is true—
then the wallpaper starts to chew the room in two
and you realize the spoon was always stirring you.