Buying pictures or books he counted a shameful waste.
Nothing he cared for art or the poet’s elaborate rhymes;
His soul was only attuned to the musical jingle of dimes.
Selfish, exacting, and stern, a hand he would treat like a slave;
Long were his hours of toil, and scanty the pay that he gave;
Made of cast-iron himself, his zeal in the struggle for gold
Left him no pity to spare for those of a different mold.
Never a cent for the poor, for the naked never a stitch;
’Twas all their fault, he would say; they should save like him, and grow rich.
Now and then to a church he’d forward a liberal amount,