What does man love more than life,
Fear more than death or mortal strife.
What the poor have, the rich require,
and what contented men desire.
What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves,
And all men carry to their graves?
With thieves I consort,
with the vilest, in short,
I'm quite at ease in depravity;
Yes all divines use me,
And savants can't lose me,
For I am the center of gravity.
The front of me is the source of a song
Or to kiss with a fervor of love lifelong.
My back is a plant fit for a queen,
Crafted by needle, chemical, or machine.
