Thursday, January 29, 2009

(Aqua Lung, Jethro Tull)

Sitting on the park bench --
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot is running down his nose --
greasy fingers smearing filthy designor label clothes.
Hey Banker Bum
Drying in the cold sun --
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Hey Banker Bum
Feeling like a lame leverage duck --
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Whoa, Banker Bum

Sun streaking cold --
an old young man wandering lonely.
Taking time
the only way he knows.
Pride hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog-end --
he goes down to the Battery
and warms his feet in the cold NY sun.

Feeling alone --
the army's up the road
salvation a la mode and
a cup of bailout tea.
Banker Bum my friend --
don't you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it's only misplaced Wall Street greed.
Do you still remember
The December's foggy freeze --
when the ice that
clings on to your bonus beard was
screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with instant message sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the Bear market spring.

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