It's one of life's more depressing ironies... that the men who crave power... are best fitted to acquire it, and least fitted to exercise it.
That's exactly what I thought when we were first told the tale. Buried on an Island of the Dead what cannot be found except for those who know where it is. Find it, We did. There be the chest. Inside be the gold. And we took them all. We spent them and traded them and frittered them away on drink and food and pleasurable company. The more we gave them away, the more we came to realise the drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, and all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust. We are cursed men, Miss Turner. Compelled by greed we were, but now we are consumed by it.
A large amount of money leads into temptation.
A conscience buried deep beneath, a heart stuck in a skeleton of greed
And eyes that can't see that happiness is so far out of reach.
Beg me for mercy
Admit you were toxic
You poisoned me just for
Another dollar in your pocket
Now I am the violence
I am the sickness
Won't accept your silence
Beg me for forgiveness.