He cries: “Be humble!”

yet lifts a chalice cast of gold.

His voice is iron ringing through the market,

his boots still gather dust of trade.

Bitcoin, he proclaims, is ark and altar,

a shield against the drowning dollar.

But behind the pulpit gleams a smile,

half prophet, half merchant, wholly sure.

Humility he demands—

yet humility sits ill on those

who weave their crowns from candlestick charts.

True humility rests by the fire,

counts not the coins,

but the stars.