A rift in gold and purse we spy,
Not born of market's hearty cry,
'Tis deficit, the hound unleashed,
Into economy, it's not reached.
Upon the Man of Fire's stead,
Rain did fall, a river's bed.
Snails and tortoises find glee,
While men in mud are stuck, not free.
Alas, the minstrel of the tide,
In his own Margaritaville, he died.
Sings a beach-bound goat no more,
Silenced, hustle, and salty lore.
