The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten Banking lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the Chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at the Chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Recession,
And each separate dying lesson, wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly upon the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From the Bank surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Labour -
For the ideology laden party, whom the media named New Labour -
Nameless here for evermore.
Then this 'man' approached a waving, throwing bundles into Darkness,
For his post was insecure and his party was a wavering
While economy shrinks in turmoil as the policy of taking,
from the workers left the cupboard bare of saving,
And he hopped upon the stair and quoth this Craven,
"Borrow more?" - "When the country is a failing,
and citizens are sailing, to a distant shore?"
"Never mind. Borrow more!"said the Craven,
from his perch above the Door, where economists were unsure;
"the tax rises needn't fall, till past election, trust my lore."
How could toxins in the ledgers, that as yet had had no measures,
to discover if their treasure could be counted as secure,
or some alchemic process that had turned them into stone,
be reversed by this Wizard, to make them gold once more
and not to noose the neck of taxpayers to become a weight for,
"I will balance all the ledgers, whence sometime this nations treasures,
are greater than before. We will make the banks so wealthy
And our five-a-day for finance, will make the land so healthy.
Our seized shares will enhance - our capacity for making
promises just for breaking, so we can keep on taking"
"Another Hundred Billion is a trifling, to relieve the banks from stifling
The guilds of all the merchants- The industry of motors,
supplying all the voters who depend upon our credit
and cannot last and will be aching for the package we must edit
from October last, when we said the banks would
"Not Need More"
"Be that so, you crazy Craven," as you knock upon my door
As all the stocks are falling, all falling through the floor.
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -You will make us all so poor!
Take thy beak from out my heart, Exit thy form we do abhor!"
Quoth the Craven, `Fine. We'll Just Print More.'
Apologies to Edgar Allen Poe