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Got The T-Shirt: Threadneedle

This sonnet by Steph Spiers pours due scorn upon those vain, self-centred moneymen who plunged the world into turmoil.

Index Bloods who daily read their stars
For insight into markets, and of investments boast,
Equally at home in high-circles and low-bars,
Where doing their own thing drives them most.
Red-braced dudes with middle-waisted spread,
Ticker-taped fingers scan with jaundiced eye.
Where all vestiges of honour lie long buried,
And vain, self-centred pride leaves all to die
In war torn lands where starved orphans fight,
And “Interventions” well meant for profit failed.
Ignored by the grey-suits in whom disquiet quite
Escapes the misery of those minions who toiled.
Can any honest man ever be beloved
Before these parasitic bankers are removed?


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