The Root Of All Evil

Deep in its thrall the miser sits and counts,
without a thought for all that passes by his door.
Whilst out in deepest snow the beggar
can no longer see the single coin that
drops from frozen fingers to the floor.

The rich and famous play and let
it slip through fingers, burning vein and nose.
And gamblers risk it all in one more
game of chance, their will power spent
before the lurid nightspots close.

A mothers love is all that keeps
her needy children warm and clothed and fed.
Like cuckoo's in the nest with open
maws they drain resources, until
from her failing cash book all's been bled.

In vaults of steel piled high it waits
as politicians all debate and play their games.
Corrupted by its power even those whose
dreams are pure can find themselves enslaved,
imprisoned, tightly wrapped within its chains.

The world is tethered tightly as
with vice like grip the bankers call each shot.
Their missing morals let them claim each bonus,
blinding them to greeds rapacious,
all consuming, avaricious rot.

This thing that shines and rustles as
we pass it through our fingers day by day.
Has risen up from little more than promise,
to become the be and end all in a life
where all that matters is the pay.

Challenge from a friend to write a poem about money.