T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the land,
not a banker was stirring, not even Greenspan.
The markets were stung by exuberance and bears, And hope rang eternal that
St. Alan still cared.
The short-sellers, nestled by stocks in the red,
Thrilled as delusions of chaos danced in their heads,
And Dubya in his fog, a pump-primer in lap,
Had just settled himself in for a nice four-year nap.
When out on the Nasdaq, there arose such a blather,
Bush sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Rate cuts a-comin' on the new-fallen dough,
Gave the luster of hope to the stocks down below.
When to Dubya's wondering eyes came such luck,
What ho, a miniature Fed and eight tiny rate cuts,
With a little old rate driver, sans smile and elan, He knew in a moment it must
be St. Alan.
Faster than a plunging Red Hat, subliminable they came,
And he yelled and pouted, and on them pinned the blame,
Now, Slowdown! Now, Inflation! In Booms we do trust!
On Job Growth! Productivity! On Yonder or Bust! To the top of the market,
make haste 'fore we fall,
Recession away, recession away, recession away all! |
