By: banshee on Martedì 17 Dicembre 2002 15:18
'Twas the night before earnings, when all through the house,
Not a profit was stirring, from cell, DRAM or mouse.
The stock certificates hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a bull market soon would be there.
The wide-eyed were up to their gullets in tech,
Fretting from troubles induced by the dreck.
While bear cubs were nestled all snug in their beds,
As visions of vindication danced in their heads.
When out on the Street there arose, not Saint Nick,
But the thud of a Nasdaq Composite downtick.
From winless PCs, folks flew like a flash,
Saying, "Nah, here's not where to go long the cash."
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen SOX
Brought sheen to some short positions in stocks.
When, what from the post-bubble years should appear
But twelve rate snip-snips and, say, eight reindeer.
With a driver so clueless, ensconced at the head,
It was patently clear, he hailed from the Fed.
To "new-era" cries, the antlered ones came,
And lustily he cheered them on by name:
Now Maxim, Dell, Intel, Big Blue and Sanmina
On Cisco, on Hynix (you laughing hyena).
Oops, one mammal short -- please accept this apology --
And sound the Bronx cheer for ... Micron Technology.
These eight stomping steeds pulled a payload nefarious
Of stock market games in guises quite various.
There's still days till Christmas, so if you've the time,
Sit back and read them in rollicking rhyme:
Write-offs and jam jobs and false-bottom calling,
Quarter-end mark-ups, it's ever so galling.
Preannounce now and guide downward hence,
To hell with the assets of ladies and gents.
Managements yearn to earnings-embellish
They go gun the shares, then cash out with relish,
While hapless investors and suckers-to-be
Watch hoodwinked and hooked to CNBC.
But enough of this brew-ha-ha, confound the mess,
We've a tale to Rap up, from which we digress.
To quote Clement Moore (on whose ditty we call),
"Now dash away, dash away, dash away all."
The Fed's sled touched down with a clickety-clack
On the snow-covered roof of the market Nasdaq.
Its driver made tracks for the soot-lined chimney
(His monogrammed bath sheets read ALAN, not JIMINY.)
When he looked and saw darkness all over the place,
He forthwith proceeded to make about-face.
Then sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
Which is subtext for "nearing the end of epistle."
Don't worry, he cooed, amidst economic blight,
Technological changes will make it all right.
And at lift-off ho-ho'd whilst he jingled his reins,
"Don we all now productivity gains."