The Love Song of A. Banker Foostock (with apologies to T.S. Eliot)

(Fortune) -- Let us go then, you and me,
As all our liquid funds float out to sea
Like stale bread crumbs cast upon the water;
Let us go, through certain downtown streets,
Littered with dead spreadsheets
That lent an air of reason to stupidity,
The shine of fiscal prudence to cupidity;
Streets that bend and wind like a rationale
Offered by our mercantile cabal
That lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, come on and quit your pouting!
Let us go and make our outing.

In the room the brokers come and go
Talking of my portfolio.

The dull red fog that winds its back around our plate-glass towers,
The dull red ink that rubs its muzzle on our plate-glass towers
Licked its tongue into the corners of our meetings,
Lingered in the pools that stand in our brains,
Let fall upon its back our hopes that go up the chimneys,
Slipped by the plazas, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that the end was not in sight,
Curled once about our desks, and fell asleep.

Yet perhaps there may be time
To mount a spin to greet the spinners that you meet
There may be time to build or defalcate,
A time for all executive commands
That lift and drop a pickle on your plate;
Time for Dimon and for Bernanke,
And time yet for more upbeat incantations,
Or for a hundred lovely presentations,
Before another hedge fund earns a fee.

In the room the brokers come and go
Laughing at my portfolio.

But yet I fear in fact there is no time
To wonder, "What the heck?" or "What the hell?"
No time for what to hold or sell,
For those who have trusted me so long and well -
(They will say, "Our assets grow so thin!")
My pinstripe suit, Brioni shirt as crisp as salmon skin,
My power tie still perfect, as crimson as original sin -
(They will say, "Whatever, man! What trouble are we in?")
Do I dare
Be anything be terse?
For every minute there's less time
For decisions or revisions our direction to reverse.

For I have served them all already, served them all:
Have pumped up Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns,
I have measured out my life with coffee urns;
And seen my prospects dying as the big firms fall,
Their CEOs departing as the huge worm turns.

And what is to be learned?

***

Shall I say, I have gone at dawn to big hotels
And watched the smoke that rises from the seats
Of analysts in shirtsleeves, brandishing their coffee cups?

I should have been a pair of CPAs
Scuttling across a dark and silent bankruptcy.

***

And should I, after all opinions and advices,
Admit at last that we are in a crisis?
That though I have consulted with the pundits, wept and prayed,
I now believe that I have seen the moment of our greatness flicker,
And I have seen George Soros hold my currency, and snicker,
And in short, I am afraid.

No! I am not a Buffett, nor was meant to be;
I am a servile 'droid, one that will do
To whip a fine no-brainer out for you,
A functionary, yes, a lowly tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Full of high pretense, but a bit obtuse;
Admittedly with many faults encumbered -
A creature of the Fortunate 500.

I grow lame... I grow tired...
I shall keep the fabric of my whole existence wired.
Shall I get a spiky do? Do I dare to bail and teach?
I shall wear a T-shirt, take a season on the beach,
I have heard the tenured singing, each to each.

If not perhaps a nice consultancy?

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Fleeing the thin crop of collapsing deals
Leaving behind the moaning and indebted squeals.

We have lingered long enough for now, I think;
Let's take a break, till much to our surprise
The market catches fire, and we rise.