The Dealers Hour - A Poem

With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
I offer "The Dealer's Hour."


Between the opening and the close
Of every coin show held
A moment come when "H" breaks loose
Known as the Dealer's Hour.

The "Early Birds" have come and gone.
The kids all home for lunch.
Those who remain, the true, the loyal
Give dealers room to breath.

It starts, at first, with innocence.
A dealer raises a voice:
"Did anyone else put up with that
So-and-so's complaints?"

And one by one they all chime in:
"He said another offered $600!"
"NO WAY, another responds."
And so, it's time for play.

Last call for coffee, futility ensues
As dealers who travel for their livelihood
Are tired, weary and worn out.
And caffeine does not offer help.

One dances a jig, another starts to sing.
Why, just today, one dealer played a violin.
Yours truly ran over to him
And asked, "Can you play Bach?"

"Why sure, dear Sir, what would you like?"
"Perhaps PARTITA 3!"
And sure enough he knew the tune!
Why I just had to dance!

The last of those who were to leave
Were Vinny, Brad and I.
And now I share a secret with you:
Treat your dealers with respect!

Again I bought from these two gents
Who have come to respect me
As I have grown to respect them.
How much easier it can be?

To those of you who still complain,
"A dealer cheated me!"
I say, "Just walk in their shoes for a mile
And learn to play the game."

Thus ends my tale of "Dealer's Hour."
And thanks for reading through this rant.
We are, both dealer and customer alike,
In need of each other, in the end.