Sympathy for the Devils.

0703/1957 82/88 Blue Skies ESE15/20 75%H.
DOGS 9300 7263 9465 1390.

Greetings from the Hill.

A breezy beautiful day in paradise,
chimes ringing, CNBC whining,
classics from Havana, cats fed,
Tony seeding the putting green,
Bill gone out to sea,
leaving the home undamaged.

The oldman listened to the Toshiba,
a habit vowed never to do....
"Yeah, yeah, but he was great,"
agreed the madone sharing an hour
with the professor from Montreal,
Global Research.ca.

"Financial Disarmament....",
mused the oldman enjoying the analogy,
the dumbones cannot recall the sixties
and threats of nuclear extermination,
the big bombs on big targets,
"Like Wall Street and Las Vegas,"
thinking of how 'it' was.

The current weapons of mass destruction
are no longer housed at Twin Towers,
a perpetrated terror ruse,
now kept away from the Goldie Tower,
beneath the New Jersey farms,
the financial bomb of econmics,
those fucking derivatives,
strange contracts without accounting,
"Because pirates abide no laws
but the rules of the Seal of the House."

What the fuck are these bets on bets,
gamble on a stock not delivered,
increase holdings through margin,
protect losses with short accounts...
simple shit from the seventies.

Insurance and risk management,
fund managers on marijuana,
salesmen on hash,
investors on acid.

"Hey, there is more money in financials,
spin off the manufacturing and keep the paper,"
the paradigm shift from doers
to dealers.

"Buy, buy, buy..."cackles the Fool in the White House.

Indulge the rape of home ownership
after paying for the prom
and the shotgun wedding.
Privatization and globalization,
old soldiers and bankers
given the keys to the central vaults
in Iraq and America,
"It's all about oil, stupid,"
more media lies.

Greenspan claimed derivatives were 'it',
the magic for risk management,
the world spread of risk,
the gee whiz cheese whiz,
"House prices never fall."

Financial products without regulation,
then the april'04 ultimate bank leverage,
"Thirty fucking to one fractional banking,"
snorted the madone about the con,
done before in Mexico,
mastered in Asia,
now targeted for America,
"The fucking traders are the traitors,"
Blankfein and Dimon pirate scum.

The booty kept in underground caves
beneath the Cayman Islands,
the fourth largest financial centre,
and British Owned.

"Debt is the answer to our wealth,"
agreed those greedy heartless cunts
behind the scheme to ruin the dreams
of blacks, illegals and trailer trash
who dreamed of fireplaces,
SUV's and PlasmaTV's,
a two story McMansion
with Big Macs
on a diningroom table.

"Sign here my man, no worry,
you have privacy rights,
granite tops and a pool,
a backyard with a view,"
the originator
of financial paper.

"What the fuck happened,
a few foreclosures don't mean shit,
something else sunk a ship,
the pirates have no honor,
sink the Bear Stearns and steal
her booty the best traders,
down with Lehman Brothers
and change the flag of Merrill
consolidating the risk of peril,
keep the secret and the model,
don't ever lose the router,
Sniffing and Phisching,
the sisters of Snoop,
ETF's scare you to death,
but something went wrong,
or was 'it' financial engineering,"
wondered the oldman.

"Bonds never default
and homes never lose value,"
now the vultures turn to
servicing of events
of origination...
derivatives appropriately
gambling on spent air,
and carbon waste,
any indice will do
for gambling fools
without brains for tools.

"Well, well, trailertrash, you had
no right pretending,
you could see Elvis in Las Vegas...
you lost your mama's money,
but not your nagging honey."

After the market bell,
beyond the Reef,
above the Horn.