Gilded dreams of gilded men,
the tyrants of old age and folly.
I see them on my way to work
down 5th and Melrose Alley.
They walk down by the district court,
though some linger by the street.
They talk amongst their pious selves,
their gait unchanged the least.
With wistful smiles in morning shade
they banter back and forth.
Then retiring to their fate at last
they wander down the way and pass
that statue by the lawn.
What then they do I know it not,
for at this time, I’m gone.
“Good riddance,” I should say to them,
my patience then well worn.