A man may buy, and a man may sell,
But the ledger speaks with a tale to tell.
The steed that gleams in the morning’s sun,
Will fetch but a fraction when years are done.
For the world moves fast in its mad parade,
And yesterday’s craft is today’s charade.
The cells grow weak, and the range runs short,
And the buyer shuns what the seller courts.
For the heart of the beast is a fleeting thing,
And gold is the weight on its weary wing.
So laugh if you must, at the man who waits,
But the wise count cost at their garden gates.
(By John Shenton)