In the year of change, Phil made his choice, Not for spices or shavers, but raised his voice, For golden coins to soar and spin, To chase the laughter, to dive within. No clove or cinnamon lined his shelf, But joy was a currency within itself. In markets of merriment, he’d play and run, Trading routine for moments spun. With every bill, a tale was told, In the warmth of friendship, in stories bold. Phil found riches in smiles unseen, A wealth unparalleled, a joyous routine.