The color is gold,
From days of old,
It's the color of wealth, we're told.
And many a life has lost total control,
For its glint, their own soul they sold.
That golden glow,
Is found you know,
In a pot at the end of the bow.
An Irishman's dream, a leprechaun's scheme,
Ask Darby O'Gill if it's so.
Then Midas the king,
With his golden ring,
Was in quest of more golden bling.
So he touched his wife and ruined his life,
In the end he lost everything.
There have been golden geese;
and a golden fleece,
and even a golden peace.
But there never has been, at least I've never seen,
A golden mouse, or a moose, or a meese.
Gold medals are won,
And gold is the sun,
And James Bond had a gold finger and gun.
But wouldn't it be grand if we were to land,
A whale made of gold by the ton.
The color of gold,
Is the hue of the bold,
But it can turn kind hearts stone cold.
For there is power in this gilt, that fills men with guilt,
Bout the old golden rule, I've been told.