The miser sits and counts his gold
well wrapped in rags against the cold.
He has no fire he lacks the sense
He cannot bear to spend his pence.
He dines upon stale bread and cheese
sometimes porridge made from peas
to satisfy his appetite.
His bags of coin his one delight.
He has no friends he trusts no man
for they will rob him if they can.
He lives in abject poverty
to spend a coin is misery.
I do not envy him his gold
a bitter man who’s heart is cold.
I share what little comes my way
I cannot make my few pence stay.
But count my self a wealthy man
The miser save all that he can
and lives alone in misery.
I think that he should envy me.
8-Jun-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poetic piers
I'm envious of your talent to make those words flow so nicely! Lovely! Hugs, dee
How much better this world would be if all its people thought as thee. Very well done, my friend. An enjoyable read. Thank you. Richard
Very nicely said. I agree: richer is the person who stores up happy memories and has shared even a little with many. His life is full of laughter and bird song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I met someone like that, He was a drunk how had all kinds of people hanging around him. But then maybe he wasn't because I couldn't smell the boose. Loved your description just the same.