I saw a sad old man sitting on the curb the other day, and sat down to ask him what was troubling him.  “I’ve been around a long time,” he said sorrowfully, shaking his head. “Been around over twenty-five hundred years in fact, and ain’t seen nothing quite like this. If I’d of known I wouldn’t have invented them damn coins.”

“In answer to your question son,”
He said with wistful sigh
“I am indeed the very one
Who divvied up the pie
The silver and the gold I pressed
Into coins of the realm
Are now the reason I’m distressed
They’re apt to overwhelm
The banking systems of the world
With shadows, sleights of hand
With numbers on computers hurled
Around to beat the band
And none of it with any worth
All shadows, paper flakes
There ain’t enough gold on this Earth
To cover all these fakes.”
“I know you now,” I cried at last
“You’re Croesus, I believe.”
“Hell no, I’m Wall Street son,” he gasped
“I’m just a guy named Steve.”