Fiat Money

A promise scrawled on cotton thread,
No weight, no shine, just words instead.
They print the night, they print the day,
Each bill sent out, returns with pay.

They call it “legal,” call it “sound,”
Yet every zero drags you down.
A trillion here, a trillion there,
More money than we can bare.

 Inflation creeps on silent feet,
Devours the coin you thought complete.
They tax the air, they tax the toil,
We are left to work barren soil.

But metal waits beyond the lie,
One honest gram will make it die.
The ink runs dry, the throne will crack,
Metals produce the even track.