Quoth the Trader, “Nevermore.”

Late one morning one December
in a year we’ll all remember,
Writing Christmas poems
had turned into quite a chore,

While I nodded, nearly napping,
suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping,
rapping at my office door.

“Tis some visitor,” I muttered,
“tapping at my office door-
Only this, and nothing more.”

Open wide I flung the entry,
stood there like an ancient sentry,
In there stepped a haggard trader
who’d been up since half past four.

Not the least obeisance made he;
not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,
walked in from the trading floor-

Stood next to a bust of Soros
on a shelf well past the door-
Stood, and sighed,
and nothing more.

Then this battered soul beguiling
my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum
of the countenance he wore,

“Though thy P/L has cratered,
you’ll get better soon or later,
Ghastly grim and somber trader
wandering from the trading floor-

Tell me what thy problem is
found upon the trading floor!”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

As he stood there slightly smirking,
doubts I’d long felt vaguely lurking
My subconscience let emerge
and push their way out to the fore.

“Though our P/L’s been stinking
and our share price swiftly sinking
Surely I’m right to be thinking
that the worst is in Q4?

When will we return to normal,
back the way it was before?”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

“Come now, fellow,” I cried, shaken,
“surely thou art quite mistaken!
There is sovereign wealth fund buying
risky assets soon in store.

Banks will soon enough start lending,
start consumers back off spending
Bring a swift and tidy ending
to our all feeling quite poor.

Don’t you think that GDP growth
soon enough will exceed four?”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

Was he simply trying to scare me,
overwhelm me, or just dare me
To get out of my positions
I’d put on the year before?

Though they trade at distressed prices,
my sangfroid is cold as ice, as
I have made it through the crisis
marking them at eighty four.

“Don’t you think if I hang on
I’ll find a bid at eighty-four?”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

My portfolio’s diverse,
moving on from bad to worse.
Managing a long-stock book
had proven to be a chore.

As I glanced back at my screen
I took on a pallid sheen
As the S&P careened
below its key supportive floor.

“Will the Nikkei ever rally
back towards where it was in ’94?”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

Then, methought, the air grew denser,
perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls
tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “Satan’s thy master,
he hath sent me to disaster
Tell me, who hath fallen faster,
me or hedge funds shuttering their doors,
Causing panic on the streets
of London, Moscow, and Lahore?”

Quoth the trader, “Nevermore.”

As the floor began to darken,
a footstep I faintly hearkened,
Followed swiftly by another rapping
beat against my office door.

In stepped an HR director,
leering like Hannibal Lecter
‘Twas not my place to correct
her as she told us what’s in store.

Then she escorted the trader
by the elbow out and off the trading floor.

I saw him again – nevermore!


via Macroman

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