The wealthy Banker sits behind
A row of shining rails,
Between a shining shovel and
A pair of shining scales.

And father often visits him
And hands him paper slips,
Which sets the Banker counting gold
With pointed finger tips.

He scoops it up, and weighs it out,
And counts it all again,
And pours it into father's hands
Just like golden rain.

And why the Banker is so rich,
And why he is so free,
And why so fond of paper slips,
Are mysteries to me.