The golden goose makes rich, the golden goose makes poor.
Sometimes the golden goose lays gold, sometimes she brings plague.
The golden goose is fickle, she does not like to be caged.
Yet she must have someplace to live, so we make her a beautiful home.
And we wonder why she eats the drapes and sleeps on a dusty tome.
Sometimes she leaves the building and wanders out your door.
Some blame her for a famine, some hate her for her games.
She already comes with feathers, all you need is tar.
Beat her with a stick and cast her out of the bazaar.
Before the puritan elders she looks like a demon they say.
Burn her at the stake, she floats like a witch anyway.
She won’t complain or cry, just be silently eaten by flames.
Among all the stories, there’s one thing you must not forget.
She brings the harvest and bounty and leaves a Malthusian threat.
When all your children are hungry and all your shelves are bare.
She rises from her ashes, and offers her gifts to those who dare.
She keeps her fangs hidden and works in the shadows afar.
Although she brings great comfort, don’t leave your door ajar.
For when the contest begins. Her eggs buy armies miles wide.
But if your gates are not guarded, she might let your enemies inside.
When all that are born are equal, the goose has a glint in her eye.
The star is not made of envy but shines aspirations up high.
Her gifts come in cycles and rise and fall like the tide.
But when the dust all settles she rewards those who bide.
When the tide is in and when the tide is out.
The petty and jealous deceivers, unfair, unfair they shout.
Be wary of those who follow false idols. For not all that glitters is gold.
Don’t turn your back on her cult, might you find your children are sold.
If there’s one thing that history has taught us: she’s neither friend nor foe.
She does care whether you man the ramparts or fill her cradles you know.
She gives pretty distractions and grand monuments alike.
She cares not if you are holy, cares not if you’re the king of the Reich.
Among all the pomp and circumstance there are pretenders to the throne.
Their kingdom’s rise on promises and fall with wishes it’s shown.
They polish her eggs to glisten but they can’t produce any more.
They rule while the eggs are plenty and run when there’s none in store.
When you’ve neither throne nor altar and your kingdom begins to rot.
Your nest is barren of children and the neighbor has a lot.
Your trees bear evil fruit, and the war drums fill the air.
You’ll know that gooses bring gifts and you’ll truly know despair.