I just found this poem that I wrote when I was in fifth grade and I thought I would share. It was published in the 1997 edition of the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.

Money does not grow on trees…
Well that’s what everybody says to me.
I don’t believe it, that can’t be,
Money has to grow on trees.

So all the money that I’ve kept,
Is moving to a different depth
I covered it up with a small mound,
And my money is growing underground.

One year has passed and I’ve seen leaves of green,
And I’ll be rich like in my dream.
Really rich is what I mean.

Fifty dollar bills have sprouted,
more will come I have no doubted.
Fall is here and time to pick,
I’ve got to hurry because time will tick.

I’ve picked my money and what I’ve gotten,
Does not look good, I think it’s rotten.
Now I’m poor unlike my dream,
Really poor is what I mean!

Special thanks to unkempt woman for the image.