There was an old Miser who owned several shops, he paid paltry wages for blood, sweat, and tears; the workers maligned but wouldn’t dare stop, for Mr. Hint Croak was the haunt of their fears. Young Glenn O’Boulie was naive and too brash, he lacked the sense to breathe and hold back; he huffed and in anger stepped to Croak in a flash, without a single worry of getting the sack. A momentary hero, he spoke the truth, he told Mr. Hint what we all knew was fair. While Hinton Croak thought the boy uncouth, he allowed his argument to linger in the air. He calmly explained the risks and pitfalls, the balance and problems and books of the trade; the soft-spoken words spread through the halls, converting the lot with the points that he made. But they were all lies, a fiction he spun, to hide reality from the toilers and makers; the truth was the more they suffered, the more he won, he was of the elite, the class of tricksters and thieves and takers.