In a field of greed where red hats sway,
An orange face sells dreams by day.
With a wink and a smile, he spins his tales,
Peddling potions, promises, and fails.
"Come one, come all," he bellows loud,
To a flock in fleece, a woolly crowd.
Eager sheep with eyes wide shut,
Guzzle down his every glut.
He markets myths with brash delight,
In hats so red, they blind the sight.
"Trust me now," he boldly lies,
While truth, in corners, softly cries.
Yet there in back, a sheep contrite,
Begins to bleat against the plight.
"I think," it says, with quiet might,
"This snake oil's wrong, it doesn't sit right."
But on goes the show, the charade balloons,
As greed paints the sky in gold doubloons.
And though the sheep may sometimes bleat,
The hats stay on, the cycle repeats.
So tip your hat, the red, the rash,
To greed and games, and balderdash.
For in this field, if truth be told,
The only thing that's sold is sold.
