OK, if Peter Rost can devote unseemly amounts of column inches to Elliot Spitzer, than I'm going to feel free to wax poetical on the heels of our current financial crisis. The following is an excerpt from a poem I wrote a long time ago, called Who Wants to Play? from the perspective of an investment banker:
Our wages come not from the things we create,
but the miniscule squeezings of this or that rate.
I'll earn more than my father by producing much less.
He worked as a craftsman; I'll learn about stress.
The Fed is our lackey; it works toward our ends.
The families we shred, we demand that they mend.
You won't see it coming, then you'll blame the wrong fools.
You can't change a thing when you play by our rules.
We'll crush you beneath our invisible hand
'Cause you cannot resist what you don't understand.
Cheerful, huh? I was in an uncharitable mood at the time. Unlike today! I also wrote an Ode to the Federal Reserve back then. No, really. If you say pretty please, I may even publish it here.