OK,
so I'm worth more,
     but that doesn't mean
     I'm for sale.

There sits a cross pen in
my pocket, and a bic in
     your jacket; which
     writes the blacker ink,
     or draws the straighter line?

Truthfully, I'd rather
die by the Sahara's choking
     hands unless served evian from
     a sculpted crystal chalice.

But really, we'll both die,
     both rot,
     both decay.
So tell me, King Shit,
     whose skeleton is worth
     the shiniest coin?