Now Brother John went with his family in tow,With Miss Allie beside him, all quiet and slow.They’d head into town in their Good Sunday best,With Uncle Jack trailin’ and Aunt Erm well-dressed.They’d find them a booth at the diner just right,Where the coffee was strong and the biscuits were light.They’d order up breakfast, no fuss and no flair,Some biscuits and gravy and two extra chairs.John nodded polite, Allie smiled soft and sweet,They cleaned off their plates, not a crumb left to eat.Then John reached down feeling just fine,And placed on the table a bright little dime.“Allie,” he whispered, “That oughta be fair,For service like that and the cook’s extra care.”She nodded, content, not thinkin’ too deep,While Jack bit his tongue and Aunt Erm didn’t peep.John and Miss Allie We’re kind to the bone.The depression was hard And they just didn’t know.A dime for a tip, like it helped with the rent,And they meant it sincere, every cent that was spent.Jack lingered behind with a gentleman’s gait,And walked to the table before it’s too late.He’d drop a few bills with a nod and a grin,Then caught up real casual, like he’d just met a friend.The waitress would smile, never sayin’ a word,Just pocket the tip like a grateful young bird.And John never saw, not a flick of the brow,That Jack tipped the waitress and slipped out somehow.So it went on for years, like a well rehearsed play,With dimes on the table and Jack on delay.Some folks give sermons, some folks give grace,And some folks just tip with a straight poker face.But the best kind of love in this proud prairie land,Is the kind that slips dollars from a sweet loving hand.I tell of the Brittons, and Jack’s quiet game.Where a dime bought a story, and no one took blame.
