The money’s gone. She left in 1971 at the stroke of a pen and then tattooed on specially designed paper.
They spent it, lent it, stacked it, and taxed it.
Until it was gone.
Then they altered, bartered, and simply made more, lots more. With the stroke of a pen they printed billions, hundreds of billions, and then we all learned a new word: a trillion.
One thousand billion, that’s what that is.
They gave it away, threw it around, and told everyone to do the same. And the money rained, because money reigns.
Until it’s gone and someone says, what about gold? With the stroke of a pen they write articles, advertisements, and essays on the subject.
They mail it in, melt it down, stamp it into ingots. It’s a sad joke like a school house bully taking a kid’s lunch and leaving a scrap of paper worth less than the ink that prints it.
And now, I must end this little tirade, for the money’s gone. Like the stroke of a pen with a dry inkwell, a figment. Maybe it never really existed at all.