Harmonica just sent me this poem she found on Dealbook.com and I’m dying.. I had to share…
‘Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the banks
Not a worker was idle, not one in the ranks.
The analysts handled their work with great care,
In hopes that old Bonus Claus soon would be there.
They all slaved away at it, past closing bell,
Plugging capex and EBITDA into Excel.
While staffers with eyes like a hawk in mid-flight,
Picked the weakest performers, and kept them all night.
When from the bullpen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my Bloomberg and picked up the chatter.
Away to the boss man I flew in a flash,
To collect a fat envelope, brimming with cash!
The joy on the old man’s face seemed to be muted
And his words, as he spoke them, became convoluted.
He talked of performance, and firm-wide right-sizing,
And putting us all through a “core optimizing.”
As quick as a flash, and with visceral passion,
And speaking with haste in a quick, fiery fashion,
He pulled up a list of the year’s DealBook stories,
And listed them one-by-one, all the vainglories:
“Now Blankfein! Now, Dimon! Now, Vikram and Hank!
On, Soros! On, Paulson! On, all of Dodd-Frank!
To tech I.P.O.’s! To Jon Corzine’s big fall!
It all was bad! Horrible! All of it! All!”
As veins of anxiety bulged on his head,
I tried to stay calm, but felt terror instead.
Then in perfect silence, he reached for his drawer,
He pulled out some whiskey, and took a long pour.
And then, for the next thirty minutes or so,
He spun Wall Street tales from an era ago.
He spoke of bull markets and buyouts with leverage,
Then sighed, and stared down at his sad little beverage.
“It’s all changed, you know,” he said, voice grinding low,
As he detailed his market fears, poor woe by woe.
He spoke of yields rising, and new regulations,
“Not to mention those [expletive] Eurozone nations.”
His suit was in pinstripes, his loafers were shined,
And he poured me a glass as he tried to unwind.
We talked of the glory days, Wall Street’s high season,
And how this year seemed to defy all our reason.
“Your bonus this year!” he said, eyes all aglow.
I clenched my fists, locked my jaw, felt my heart go.
He pulled a thin envelope from a tall stack,
As I pictured my year of pain being paid back.
He handed it over and waited a while,
Til’ I opened the envelope, face in a smile.
This man was my idol, my godhead, my hero!
Then I saw it in bold print: a big honking zero.
He sprang to his feet, and said, “Kid, them’s the breaks,”
As I quietly stood there, all shivers and shakes.
I walked to the door, and I pulled at the knob,
And I heard, “Merry Christmas! You still have a job!”