be a sport

the stink of money
is upon them.
it's stuck to the bottom
of polished
black riding boots,
on the wheels
of their
fine cars.
it's in the sneer
of them,
the lineless tanned faces,
the straight noses.
it's between their teeth,
sharpened
with coin, white
as tusk.
it's green, this money.
lush and plentiful,
it grows on their
limbs
like new planted trees.
they never glance
about the room,
there is nowhere left that
they need to be,
they are already there.
arrived.
you, young man, be a sport.
bring me tea.