RETURN TO DESOLATION ROW
(to the Melody of Desolation Row, Bob Dylan)
WilliamBanzai7

They're selling dark postcards of Wall Street
They're painting passbooks black
The air is filled with busted banker dread
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind SEC commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the FBI they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady luck and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Bailout Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Wall Street Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says," You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave"
And the only sound that's left
After the town car limo goes
Is Bailout Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the market moon is almost hidden
The economic stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Paulson and Bernanke
And the lame hunchback of Pennsylvania Avenue
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting black market rain
And good old Warren, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Dick Fuld, he's 'neath the window
For him I feel so afraid
On his sixty-second birthday
He is just an old Wall Street maid
To him, market death is quite romantic
He wears a pinstripe vest
His profession's his religion
Sins of greed yet to be confessed
And though his eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
He spends his time peeking
Into Desolation Row

That "Maestro" Greenspan, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a seedy Wall Street skunk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the greek alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the free market violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Bernanke, he keeps his world
Inside a Federal tin cup
But all his terminal patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the subprime hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy on their Souls"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

On the Street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Markets
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoon feeding Hank Paulson
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with their con men skills
After poisoning him with their wily shills
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know
Paulson's is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight the GOP led by McCain
And their subhuman neocon crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the market kerosene
Is brought down from their grand old castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be Roubini's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Elephant and Donkey Men
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the crashing market sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received the bullish newsletter
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how my net was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more newsletters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row