A poem, by Jason Sellers
For thousands of years,
Through blood, sweat and tears,
Humanity labored and grew.
We traded the fruits
Of hard-won pursuits,
When desires matched between two.
But then we soon found,
From deep in the ground,
Metal the color of honey.
With this we could trade
For anything made.
We called this invention "money".
This tool now in hand,
We tended the land,
And bought and sold with our neighbor.
This medium was
So precious because
It had to be mined with labor.
But as nations spread,
And wars made men dead,
Those in thrones were tempted by greed.
Not much could be spent,
Or on journeys sent,
To lands far away in great need.
A scheme was then made
For people to trade
Their hard-earned money for paper.
More easy to hold
Than silver or gold,
But its value soon would taper.
In '71,
Like out of a gun,
Nixon cut the dollar from gold.
From this single change
Would life rearrange,
To be worse for all, young and old.
All prices increased,
And savings were least
For those who were greatest in need.
And they in control
Could reach their great goal
To enslave and make the world bleed.
What was to be done
When father and son
Cared not for a time but today?
All manner of waste,
And unyielding haste,
Ruled over us, blocking our way.
Then someone unknown,
And with humble tone,
Shared a plan to put it all right.
Eight pages explained
A money ordained
To free us from our awful plight.
Nobody controls
Or sets their own goals
For this money that all can hold.
We each can rely
On its scarce supply,
And know that its truth will be told.
But some saw a chance
-- Their greed to advance --
To make some new coins of their own.
Each one of them fail,
For all of them pale
Next to the one harder than stone.
The future is ₿right,
For hope is in sight,
Regardless of all that's amiss.
For whether it's war,
Poverty and more,
We can say *"Bitcoin fixes this!"*
