A knock on the door; I answer it.
Henry Ford is standing there.
He's holding his cap in his right hand,
His left is outstretched,
"Say, buddy," quoth he, "Can you spare a dime?"
I do want to help him;
I reach for my change;
Through some flux in perspective,
A tear in my pocket,
My own dime has dropped and is lost.
I spin 'round instinctively,
Eyes scanning maddeningly,
Hands searching frantically;
I retrace the path I have taken 'til now;
I had it at one point, but now it is gone.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, with tears in my eyes,
"My own dime I've lost; I can't recall where."
"My friend," he says, "You need this more than I."
He hands me his hat, tells me "Go find another."
Another one, maybe, but never my own.