0718/1921 78/85 Blue skies E10/15 70%H
Greetings from the Hill.
A beautiful day in paradise,
classics from Havana,
cats sleeping and CNBC ranting...
today Ben is alone with representatives,
Paulson crying with the two dunces
wailing and bailing,
wondering what to steal
and not reveal.
The Senate Banking Committee yesterday,
such a television treat to watch
as these watchdogs stumble
and fumble with words
"That represents $7,000 per household,"
figures a wise one contemplating.
"But only $2,300 per person,"
offers the 'hold to maturity' advocate
against mark to market
and 'firesale' pricing'
a proponent of cashcards at birth.
Senator Dodd had a chance for the throne
but had those Mozzili sillys
with the rest that love BofA
and look at them now...
Going after the Goldie Sox gang.
Now Schumer is senior in New York,
keeping the shrew on the leash,
but who wants this fucking mess
started by Wonderboy Bill...
Phil Gramm and Greenspan,
Summers and Rubin,
and coke from Columbia,
"Hey you fucking assholes, give me the Truth."
Not a hope in Hell, these twenty deadheads
were responsible to monitor the Fed
and sucked Bush's tit for four years,
then under Pelosi did shit
while the Shrew manipulated
in her bitch's brew
with the dike's of America.
"Great Ceasar's Ghost, such a dilemma,
a pickle in the porkhole", laughed the madone.
Could there not be a voice of reason,
a combination of Sense,
the good doctor and Elizabeth Dole,
a Secretary herself...
"Credit Default Swaps over 63 Trillion,
an Over The Counter derivative market,
a growing counterparty crisis that
is swept under shadow banking,"
Paulson stuttering again, Ben in tears,
the heart felt for the academic,
but not the baldheaded bullshitter.
All very nice, this capitalist democracy
based on who owns the debt
and who can collect, the mob is gone,
no broken knees on Wall Street,
just fuckup bonuses, 'Paid to Fail'
and a parachute to Dubai.
"Hey, look at the Odd Couple,
imagine if this pair took over...
the Democrats stall the Bailout,
maintain control and lose the White House",
snorts the madone amused
at the scenario of the shrill
and Mister Mumbles,
better than Bojangles.
"And think of Sick Dick
and the gun totting bitch
fatassing in his chair,"
snapping a pint
and watering the rooster.
The oldman sighed,
his broken shoulders ached,
there would be no surgery
not even pain pills,
just living with pain
beneath one's means,
drinking at home and
saving ten percent each month.
Walking to the bus stop.
Sweeping the sidewalk.
Watering the chickens.
Above the Horn.
Inside the Straits.