XVII.
by Samuel Hoffenstein

When I was young (or maybe, five),
And glad, so glad to be alive,
Oh, how my fancy used to itch
To be–how shall I put it?–rich!
A millionaire, it seemed to me,
Was quite the only thing to be;
A millionaire or billionaire
Or trillionaire–let’s leave it there!
Well, now my jolly youth is dead,
My pretty, infant fancies fled,
And here I sit and brood and itch
To be–how shall I put it?–rich!