Hank Paulson at the Bat

copyleft 2008

by Zbignew Zingh

(with apologies to Ernest Lawrence Thayer, 1888)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the flimflam men

that day;

The bailouts were soaring with more

bank failures to pay,

And then when Lehman died at first and Merrill

did the same,

A pall-like silence fell upon investors in the game.

A straggling few cashed in their chips in deep despair.

The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, “If only Uncle Sam could but get a whack at that -

We'd put up even money now, with Treasury at the bat.”

But AIG was the first at bat and then came struggling WaMu,

And the former was a clunker while the latter was dog doo;

So upon the stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;

For there seemed but little chance of Paulson getting to the bat.

But AIG got bailed out, like Fred and Fannie Mae,

And WaMu, it's stock at 2, still lived another day;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was WaMu safe at second and AIG at third.

Then from 200 hundred million throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the stock markets, it rattled closing bells;

It pounded the derivatives and roiled the Street's Fat Cats,

For Paulson, of the Treasury, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in bankers' manner as Paulson stepped into his place;

There was pride in Wall Street's bearing and a smile on its face.

And then, responding to the jeers, Hank Paulson doffed his hat.

No investor could doubt that it was Uncle Sugar at the bat.

Two hundred million eyes were on him as he purchased tons of dog dirt.

Economists applauded when it was wiped on taxpayers' shirts.

Then while the writhing Bernanke drove interest rates way down,

Defiance flashed in Wall Street's eye, “Hooray!” said Bush the clown.

And now the leather-covered turd came hurtling through the air,

And Paulson stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the Chinese bankers flinched as the turd unheeded sped -

“That ain't my style,” said Paulson. “Strike one!” Karl Marx once said.

From the benches, filled with Middle Class, who'd lost their homes and stores,

Like the beating of the CDOs on distant foreign shores;

“Kill them! Kill the bastards!” shouted someone in the stands;

And it's likely they'd have killed them had not Paulson raised his hands.

With a plea for Christian charity like Palin's urge to drill,

Paulson stilled the rising tumult; Palin said “It is God's will”;

He signaled to investors, and again the dung sphere flew;

But Paulson bailed out again, and as Karl Marx once said “Strike two!”

“Fraud!” cried the Middle Class, and echo answered

“Fraud!”

But one soothing word from Bernanke and the Middle Class was awed.

They saw Hank Paulson's face grow stern, they saw Fed muscles strain,

And they knew the Federal Reserve wouldn't drop the ball again.

The sneer has fled from bankers' lips, their teeth are clenched in fright;

They pound their heads upon the floor, their throats are getting tight.

And now the capitalists throw the turds, their suits and ties askew,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Paulson's rescue.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,

The band is playing somewhere, and capitalists' hearts are light,

And somewhere folks retire well, their faith in money stout;

But there is no joy on Wall Street – mighty Paulson has struck out.