All profits disappear
the gain of ease, the hoarded, secret sum And now grim digits of old pain Return to litter up our home We hunt the cause of ruin, add, Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn For all our scratching on the pad, We cannot trace the error down What we are seeking is a fare One way, a chance to be secure The lack that keeps us what we are, the penny, that usurps the poor theodore Roethke }*{ the Reckoning
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