Realpoetics

You laughed when I explained that I like cash,
As if it wasn't something one believes,
But says when one is entertaining thieves
Or making fun of poets. It was rash,
But, honestly, what makes most things go smash?
No money. If I write about the leaves,
The flowers, love, and how the south wind grieves
As it blows northward, you'd say, What a hash!

We got along together well that day,
But all I saw, a yawning great abyss,
Kept me from happiness. It comes to this:
At which cruel moment do you walk away?
What happens when I wink at you and say
I specialize in songs of avarice?