Usury

In shadowed alleys where the gaslight flickers,
A usurer sits with ledger bound in leather,
His eyes like flint, his voice a low whisper,
That turns each earnest plea into cold tether.

He offers gold, yet binds the borrower's sigh
With interest that climbs like ivy on stone,
Each pound he lends becomes a greedy sigh,
Till debtor's hope is worn to skin and bone.

The streets may praise his thrift, his shrewd deceit,
Yet conscience worms beneath the cobbled stones,
For wealth won thus is but a hollow feat,
A curse that feeds on flesh and breaks the bones.

So let the just recall the ancient creed:
No gain is sweet that springs from others' need.