MAX
 

 

MAX

Max was not long in this country,
But he'd been here long enough
To know the value of a penny,
And that a hundred made a buck.
 
And if he put a few away,
He might achieve his dream,
To become a rich American,
And become a man of means.
 
So Max worked very hard each day,
He went to school at night,
For several years he did this,
While he kept his goal in sight.
 
His prospects and his future
Looked brighter by the day,
As from each and every paycheck,
Max stashed some cash away.
 
He led a very thrifty life,
He was so full of hope,
He spent no money needlessly,
And he learned just how to cope.
 
Steady and reliable,
He kept his aims in mind,
He never once missed a deposit,
And he paid his bills on time.
 
His little bank account took off,
So fast it seemed to grow,
It reached impressive triple digits,
Which built up his status quo.
 
Soon people at the bank
Began to smile and call him "Sir,"
They even held the door for him,
And gave him calendars.
 
And so it went, year after year,
Max's money grew too much.
Far more than one man needed,
Folks said he had the Midas touch.
 
By middle-age, Max had achieved
What he'd set out to do,
He had fulfilled the American dream,
And he had paid his dues.
 
Then Max grew old, and he grew tired,
He laid down one night and died,
His friends, in deepest sorrow
Were by his side and cried.
 
They shed their tears and grieved for him,
A gala funeral was planned,
After all, Max knew so many folks,
And he died a wealthy man.
 
To distribute Max's property,
His lawyers and his bankers met,
Imagine their surprise and shock
To learn ... he'd not a penny left!
 
Not enough to cover the funeral,
Nor the caterers at the wake,
And since he couldn't take it with him,
Where was the man's estate?
 
Accountants then and auditors
Began an in depth search,
What happened to the money
Was Max's character besmirched?
 
They soon discovered many notes,
All with one common theme,
All saying, "Thank you, thank you, Max,
You have fulfilled OUR dream."
 
He helped an immigrant come in,
He paid for a boy's education,
He paid rent for a homeless soul,
And covered a mother's operation.
 
He picked up the tab on groceries,
For a lot of hungry folks,
He built a church, complete with steeple,
Which helped give people hope.
 
He never passed a beggar,
Without reaching for his billfold,
And, if solicited for funds,
He gave at least a hundredfold.
 
So when Max died, not one red cent
Was left in his account,
After all the years he claimed he saved,
Now people found him out.
 
Oh, what a joke!  Poor Max died broke!
Well, at least, that's what people said,
But when he arrived in heaven,
A gold crown was put upon his head.
 
Broke!  My Foot!  To be that Broke!
Oh, no!  To be that Rich!
Funny, how the passing years,
Can make one's values switch!
 
Max died a very wealthy man,
After giving everything away,
He knew the reasons then at last,
As to why all those years he'd saved.
 
The poorest man, the richest grows,
And the least becomes the most,
The meekest is given the keys,
And the lowest sits with the Host.
 
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright 2002