To keep from crying, I guess we laugh … nervously.
This volatile week rekindled the poet in me:
‘Twas the night before BAILOUT, when all through the House.
Each Democrat conferring, each Republican in doubt.
Stocks were hung on Wall Street with fear.
In hopes St. Paulson soon would be there.
The bankers nestled all smug in their beds.
While visions of BAILOUT danced in their heads.
When on the White House lawn, arose such a clatter.
The President awoke to see what was the matter.
And what to his wondering eyes did appear.
But a bundle of tax breaks, marks of the ear!
Wooden arrows for children, rebates on rum.
Car racing credits, billions in sum!
To the top of the House, to the top of Hill.
The satchel of pork the Senate did spill.
Baucus! Reid! Obama! McCain!
Now Boehner! Now Frank! You vote the same!
Paulson, Bernanke, they sprang to their sleigh.
“Here we come, Wall Street, we’re on our way!”
But we heard them exclaim as they left with their sack…
“Taxpayers, don’t fret, you’ll get your money back!”
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