I may be poor, but money’s not my God,
I’m beneath His wings, not vulnerable.
In passing you I may not smile or nod,
That doesn’t mean I’m not amicable.
Maybe in your side I feel like a thorn,
Perhaps within your neck you feel some pain.
It’s not you, it’s your greediness I scorn,
Admitting I’ve got nothing I will gain.
To Jesus Christ I just keep handing all,
I have a full-time job in trusting Him.
To the whims of mind control I’ll not fall,
Sin’s chances of seducing me are slim.
If you wonder why it seems I was born,
I’m upsetting money tables adorned.
This poem was a finalist in the November 2019 poetry contest