Now here's a relaxing one called "Will Money Become Nothing."
"The miser is at the bank desk, licking his cold money.
The spendthrifts in a garden, tasting grass and honey.
The moderate is sleeping, his bed paid for today.
While I, oh, the FBI may trace in vain my way.
A murderer of money I vanished on that star
where upside-downess heirs hope of being but we are."