Midas Niggard came accounting home From troubleshooting the red to the black By financial wizardry of superlative suches With a padlock on his auto trunk And a miser-box for waste Both of which contained tidbits of good taste. After vegetable sup His eyes would inevitably cross And sipping an herbal broth With a cackle, a tooth, and a squint As his boo-looking wife Sprinkled crumbs in his box. Shortly thereafter, as a matter of factor, Midas would sprout pinions, playing a kazoo And strap on insect glasses and tennis shoes So that his wife might motor him to the countryside Where Midas' spastic fantasy Would peak.