A t**d, Gilded

A Poem by Stephen Norton

You aim for everest
With only the skill to cross a hill
You wait for gold
When silver is handed to you
You c**k your head, bewildered
Offended I'd reach out to you
A corpse sitting quietly
Ready to decay
Delay, postpone salutations
Till a ring would have no place to hang
Keep waiting on prince charming
No one wants the farmer
Every peasant girl is a princess
And every man is a pauper