(A Satirical Folk Song in the Style of Woody Guthrie)

(Verse 1)

Oh gather ‘round, ye honest folk, and lend a weary ear,

A tale of golden promises and profits disappear.

Dale Whitaker took his stand, his whistle loud and clear,

Exposin’ how they fleece you when the gold trade’s near. [B-5]

(Chorus)

Gold, gold, shiny and cold,

Dealers spin their lies so bold.

Weights are short, the premiums high,

Leavin’ working folks to cry. [A-10]

(Verse 2)

They’ll sell you coins with "rare" mint marks, a premium so steep,

But melt’s the only value when the markets take a leap.

"Numismatic treasure!"—oh, what a crooked spiel,

When graded slabs are rigged to hide the artificial deal. [S-4]

(Bridge)

Beware the "limited edition" struck just last Tuesday,

Or "certified collectibles" that fade like morning haze.

The vaults are full of tungsten, yet they swear it’s pure and true,

While honest stacks get taxed to death—now who’s laughin’ at you? [B-2]

(Verse 3)

The ads all scream "Inflation’s here! Buy now or mourn your fate!"

But skip the TV hucksters peddlin’ fear to manipulate.

For every ounce you overpay, a banker buys a yacht,

While Whitaker’s truth-tellin’ shakes the Ponzi lot. [A-6]

(Outro)

So stack your weight in bullion, friend, and steer your own defense,

Avoid the slick-tongued middlemen and markup’s foul pretense.

The grifters wear three-piece suits, but thieves are thieves of old,

And Dale’s just proved their golden claims are merely fool’s gold. [S-8]