I clutched in my hand.
But now, though accustomed to buying far closer,
Whenever in markets or stores I appear
To lay in provisions, the butcher or grocer
Will glance at my dollar and quietly sneer.
At the tail of a line of more affluent buyers
Awaiting my turn I must patiently stand,
For no one, as far as I gather, desires
The pitiful dollar I hold in my hand.
The poor little dollar,