It’s the day before Christmas, and all through the town, nothing’s not on sale—everything’s been marked down.
The red tags are marked by the store clerks with care in hopes that St. Nicholas’ minions will soon be there.
The brokers have been nestled, all snug in their cubes, with visions of bonuses for all but the rubes.
With Goldman’s latest earnings, and mortgagors stewing from the latest flap, they’re all settling down for a couple of days off from this crap.
When down on The Street there comes such a clatter…even MSNBC pulls a commercial to see what was the matter.
Away to the monitors, reporters fly in a flash, breaking into regular programming, and giving up some cash.
The moon on the crust of the cab-driven slush, gives luster to the lucre in the pre-holiday crush.
When what to their wondering eyes should appear, but the results of mini rate-cuts—not intended to be severe.
From a wiley new chairman, in his pocket a hankie…they know in a moment it must be Ben Bernanke.
More rapid than beagles, his Fed governors have brayed,
“A half-point, a quarter, three-quarters,” they’ve prayed.
“Now Krosner and Mishkin, Vice Chairman Kohn, Mister Walsh,” says Ben, “all these rate cuts will come out in the wash in the end.”
“Tell
To the top of the markets, from here at Broad and Wall, we’ll evaporate anxiety, yes, dash away all!”
As lemmings before a wild market will fly, when they meet with an obstacle, climb a wall of worry to the sky.
So up to the exhanges the traders they flew with a bag full of ammo from the Fed governor’s brew.
And then in a twinking, faster than a level-2 trade, the markets responded to the changes Ben made.
As traders withdrew and the stocks turned around, down the industrials came with a choke and a bound.
Money passed through their fingers like charcoal and soot, and trading slips and electronic orders were tramped underfoot.
The bundle of rate cuts did the dollar attack, to that even the OPEC princes wanted out of that pact.
Ben’s eyes, how they twinkled, his bald spot gleamed like a lamp; his actions, however, betrayed all his vamps.
His droll little mouth was drawn up in an “oh!” as he observed how his changes were ebbing the flow.
A stump of a stogie he held in his teeth, while the steam from his ears encircled like a wreath.
He had a pinched face, with an expression of anguish, as he watched from the Fed as the markets extinguished.
Ben’s visage was darkened, not a jolly old elf… as the economy reacted in spite of himself.
With a wink of an eye, and a twist of his head…Wall Street wondered anew what there might be to dread.
Ben spoke not like Greenspan, but continued to work, fielding questions and pundits and talking heads and some jerks…
And laying a finger on the side of his nose, he let them all know they were “number one,” I suppose.
He sprang to the Fed, gave the governors a whistle, and into an FOMC meeting they flew like a missile.
And we heard Ben exclaim as they met out of sight…
“Just wait until next year.”
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