Your thoughts demand more than small copper change;
Nor is a nickle, dime, or quarter worth
The treasured time you take to make your mirth.
To pay with less than diamonds this exchange
Indeed would be a crime of the kind strange.
Your precious words are gems from other earths;
Each charming thought to which your mind gives birth
Creates a healing balm for hearts estranged.
So take my wealth and make me with it poor,
For sounds that spill from lips like yours do make
My list'ning ears with Midas' kiss turn rich.
And when your thoughts you can divulge no more,
Devoted service will be yours to take.
So speak, I beg, and all my wounds you'll stitch.