Good News for a Poor Man

Those stamps of Caesar rubbed between your thumbs
The man in pin-striped suit has tinked inside
That copper cup that you use to drink from
When you've saved twenty quarters to buy wine

Will never be enough to break you free
From prison, where you live within your mind,
Though liquor, Sudafed, and THC
Distract you from the present, you are blind

To bigger pictures of what is and was
And will be, too, if you give pause to think,
For pleasure can't be sold, nor bought because
The goal is freedom from these metal chinks

That hold your writs fast to the wall until,
Your breath leaves from your lungs, and you lie still.