The Pot of Gold.
Ten people I told of a pot of gold,
Buried under the roots of an old oak tree.
Nine wonder how it would be nice,
For such gold be good for their pathetic lives.
Eight plot to make others dig,
And take the gold without lifting a pick.
Seven too seek the best time to go,
And making sure that nobody knows.
Six got ready with all equip,
But stay distracted with bones to pick.
Five wanted to sleep a little more,
Feeling comfy yet claim they are sore.
Four earn silver from dishonest trade,
Then lamented its all that they hate.
Three forgotten that they're told,
Of gold given by the wise and old.
Two weep with much bitter protest,
That someone made their life a mess.
Finally only One stood tall and went,
And dug up the gold with his own bare hands.
by WindyG a.k.a Michael Kuan
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