Leafless trees hang low, over cold and silent grave,
Dark skies above foreboding, not yet a snowflake shed,
Winter hath descended, soon will the land enslave,
In grip of icy tentacle, the touch of recent dead.
A miser's life devoid of warmth, if not for heat of anger,
Grievers haste last requiem, in quest of life's departure,
Affections cause not mourner's grief, for hate creates their languor,
For in his life bred discontent, now silent wrath incur.
Aye, the miser lay in final slumber, beneath a rich man's stone,
But in the ground as poor shall lie, for wealth shan't pierce the shroud,
As man doth live, so shall he perish, shall live and die alone,
As pauper to the worms doth go, beneath foreboding cloud.
Heed the death knell of the miser, as passes through time's portal,
Lest one betakes themselves too great, in history are all mortal.
[This message has been edited by Tim (edited 09-01-99).]