the anti-Christ that struck on September spurned,
to this was piled another cataclysm,
without name or knowledge, without ism.
For eight years the soot spewed on high,
until wretched defeat was tasted nigh,
the tiny hands of bright decay,
stalked the cities of light and day.
When toppled the tinker toys of financial princes,
through the blood the poison of recession rinses.
The coffers of the anointed swell,
the unction spat from some mathematic hell.
The oil that greases the wheels of woe,
comes from our vaults, not some place below.
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