The Dollar

You don’t get all you pay for.
You never get much at all.
What little you buy goes in the kitchen
Or the bathroom, down the hall.

Your paycheck is a whisper
In a canyon of empty space
It’s a hobble down the highway
In an Indy 500 Race.

All this squabble about the dollar
And the security of Wall Street
Means little to the working man
Just trying to make ends meet.

You work one full time job
And maybe another part time gig
Hoping it’ll make a difference
But it never seems all that big.

Who knows where this is going?
Most say it’s never been this hard.
As for me, my whole retirement
Is buried in a coffee can in my backyard.