Not in love but in what seemed a physical necessity
And now I cannot even watch the spring
The itch for subsistence and having become responsibility.
Money the she-devil comes to us under many veils
Tactful at first, calling herself beauty
Tear away this disguise, she proposes paternal solitude
Assuming the dishonest face of duty.
Suddenly you are in bed with a screeching tear-sheet
This is money at last without her night-dress
Clutching you against her fallen udders and sharp bones
In an unscrupulous and deserved embrace.
- C.H Sisson