The Pied Piper of Economy
The tall figure stood hidden within the shadow,
his blue eyes filled with pain and sorrow.
As he gazed upon the crowded thoroughfare,
as rich and powerful go about their businesses unaware.
The frown on his forehead showing consternation,
at the great divide in this country's economization.
Strutting his way into the financial square,
the prosperous workers stop, look, and stare.
At this weird character in his long red coat,
flared, stripy trousers and polka dot top.
A bright blue bow-tie knotted neatly at his throat.
Atop his head a big black floppy witches hat,
like from the Potter film, the hat that can chat.
From under the swathes of his ankle length vestment,
he withdraws his favourite musical instrument.
Holding the flute gently to his lips, fingers poised ready,
the notes produced sounding sweet in perfect harmony.
The musical notes play the song of a winning investment.
They are compelled to listen, they cannot ignore it.
Out of the buildings the Fatcats came tumbling,
the financial calling of the flute so compelling.
The music floats up to their penthouse floors,
they swaggered and swayed out the buildings doors.
Huffing and puffing on their Cuban cigars,
chauffeurs forgotten, left waiting in limousine cars.
The lawyers followed in the Fatcats wake,
forgotten the hundred dollars an hour they will make.
Then slinking from the gutters and drains below,
politicians creeping they are the lowest of the low.
Bank managers wring there hands with giggling glee,
these Fatcats of money, the city's financially greedy.
Skipping and prancing the estate agents come dancing,
singing their songs of housing exaggerated selling.
Slowly bringing up the rear, last but never least,
the car selling salesman, that loves to fleece.
Quickly turning, the pied piper leads the way,
this strange man at the head of the Fatcat parade.
This pied piper he just kept on playing,
leading the column of Fatcats, all following.
Until they reached the highest cliff around,
and like lemmings the Fatcats plummeted to the ground.
So just a little warning to all you financiers out there,
if you treat people like doormats, you better beware.
Watch for that strange figure in his ankle length suit,
specially if you see him reach for his musical flute.
Run like hell, don't stop and never look back.
He's after the no good, money grabbing, Fatcats.
By Tracey Owen & R.B.Rueby
copyright Sept 2010