A throne built on ledgers, a kingdom of gold,
Where fortune is whispered and secrets are sold.
The walls, they are ancient, yet never decay,
For wealth is immortal—it never obeys.

The hands of the fathers, the pockets of sons,
The bloodlines are rivers that never outrun.
A birthright in ledgers, an empire in ink,
Inheritance spoken before you can think.

They feast on the echoes of labor long past,
A meal set for kings on a table too vast.
And those without names, and those without land,
Are left to collect all the crumbs in their hand.

And yet, through the ages, the cycle remains,
A crown made of paper, a kingdom of chains.
For money is nothing but time left to spend,
And time is the tyrant that none can transcend.