It starts with the whispers 

Breathed into inhabitants' ears 

The chilling wind-like purrs 

They spread their material fears 

 

"There must be more money!" 

The voices belonging to no one sigh 

It drives the boy funny 

To him they are shrill and high 

 

And in the currency flows 

And though it should appease 

The whispers become bellows 

And the statements become decrees 

 

The crave for little slips of paper 

Intensifies as more is given 

And though they are no more than vapor 

Their shrieks threaten the house to riven 

 

"There must be more money!" 

By the gods, the screams 

It'll be the death of you, sonny 

Apart, it'll pull you by the seams 

 

These spirits with an affliction 

Are so overwhelmed with a great need 

From toxics, they suffer an addiction 

This deadly drug they call greed