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Monday, April 13, 1998
13 Apr 98
By Paul Ford
Poems for Young Capitalists
Nursery Rhymes for Young Capitalists
In An Office Quite Near the Old Flatiron Building
In an office quite near the old Flatiron building
Hang portraits of CEOs, framed, trimmed with gilding.
Their margins expanded, their portfolio swelled,
But their feet are now licked by the hot flames in hell.
Beneath them, the workers feel deep deadline dread,
While visions of stock options dance in their heads.
The designers of graphics snort coke at their desks,
And sales phones prospects in weeping duress.
The man in HR gives a terrible shout--
"Here comes the board! Their meeting let out!"
Industrious shuffles as keyboards start typing.
The writers write copy, PR men start hyping.
The dark suits emerge, each member a clone,
And the rooms fill with clamoring cellular phones.
So, just as our profits triumphantly swell,
The horsemen arrive and we all go to hell.
Lawyers, Lawyers, Everywhere
Lawyers, lawyers, everywhere,
And not a thought to think.
The accountant ran off with the profits,
And the bankers have taken to drink.
When You Grow Up
When you grow up,
Dilly Dally,
When you grow up,
You'll play the stocks,
Dilly Dally,
And beat your wife.
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