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Annual Returns
If money grew on trees, How happy we'd be then, The children rolling in dough, The fathers raking it in.
With holdings in the branches Showing a big return, The Trees would drop a fortune, We'd all have money to burn.
As autumn leaves, however, We find the poor still poor. The falling stocks in trees Are swept away from the door.
So what became of the boy Whom teachers had to scold, Who stared and stared out windows Into the lands of gold,
Where after school he spent His lonely afternoons And shuffled home knee-deep In rubies and doubloons?
He listens to the leaves That rattle in a squall, Still dreaming of a world That profits from the fall.
Greg Williamson
From
The Silent Partner, Story Line
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