Oil In the Dessert

The man paces the expansive hall
Patent leather shoes on plush carpet
Scotch on the rocks lieing untouched
On the dark mahogany desk

He reaches for the phone
And instructions to move a Billion
coins of gold is sent
Like a speeding bullet

Across the continent
And it hits, finding its mark
And death rains on the villagers
As they scatter in the dessert

Under its scorched ground
Gurgling, whispering flows this Oil
That the bullet is supposed to uproot
into the bank books

Of New Yorkers and Londoners that pace
Those stately rooms with the marble halls
And lush carpet and deep soft couches
Where you sink in and disappear

And swoon in debauchery
From too much and an inability to
Keep it for yourself
Having to entrust it all

To scum bag executives
And sleazy accountants
The disloyal rotting lot who would
As likely cut your throat

If they could
If the mob would come
And help expropriate
The expropriators