Many may derive a different meaning from this work, for truly it has many facets, but there was one particular thing I had in mind when I wrote it. It's there for those who know to see...

They steal it from me.
They steal it in the night,
buying it with what is mine
by rights.
They're stealing it from you
too, but nobody speaks
with buttoned mouths
sewn shut by their greed.

No more is it there,
the shelves are empty,
and I find no amount
of money in the world
can buy what isn't there
anymore. Because we
let them take it,
for a price.
Now it's priceless,
and we have none.

It's for our own good,
or so they claim,
and they use our own
dollars to take it away.
Gone is the fun, gone
is the freedom that we
all once shared. Now
bitter dust upon the
barren shelves.

The joke is on them
a little bit.
For back in my storeroom
I retain a drop of
that which they wish to
take, but never can
they take my tiny hoard.
They might try, but
I am unwilling to sell.
To steal it from me
they'll need more than
a dollar, never will
I surrender what is mine,
by rights.

Hold fast, my fellows,
and keep your powder dry.