Twas the Street before Christmas, and everything sucked.
Most bankers were hurting; some totally f-cked.
Lehman was dead and Merrill acquired
Thain asked for ten million as thousands were fired.
TARP funds flooded every bank on the Street,
and GM and Chrysler waited to suckle the teat.
Bernie Madoff was safely under house arrest
while SCORES laid off girls with artificial breasts.
Then outside my cubicle there arose such a fray
I feared the whole firm would go under that day.
I put down my pitchbook and financial models,
And prepared for an evening of tears and rum bottles.
Right there in the bullpen stood the strangest of fellers
Who arrived on a sleigh pulled by naked short sellers.
He bellowed and blustered and let out a curse
and before we knew it, things got even worse.
For there in his clutches were our bonus checks
and all of our hopes of prestige, toys, and sex.
With an evil grin he then handed them out
and, one after one, faces drooped in a pout.
The numbers fell victim to maniacal division
and, oh, did I mention the clawback provision?
I was enraged and in shock, and then what was more
after taxes, I couldn’t buy Eliot Spitzer’s wh-re!
In less than a week my bonus was spent
and I thought of moving back in with the ‘rents.
But New Years was coming and it would be great
to party like a baller and get rid of Oh-Eight.
Oh-Nine will be better and we’ll all get rich
the sooner we say goodbye to this ugly b-tch.
So keep your chins up and your heads held high,
put in the hours and never say die.
As bad as things are, they’ll get good again
and you’ll be glad you hung in there with all the real men.
When you’re in bed with a model and getting a hummer
you can lay back and think,
“Thank God I’m not a plumber!”
Thanks "the Big Picture" and Haggs.
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