The Iron Glove

A thousand bears fell on their swords
while trying to pick the top.
"It can't go higher", we all said,
but still they ramped that slop.

When high grew high
and higher still,
we all dreamed of the perfect fill;
for all but them that shorted Sun
that dream eludes us still.

But now it's time to turn this rhyme
around and on its head.
The bottom's near, the game is fear,
the mighty bull is dead.

It's time to try and catch that knife
that's fallen from above;
the hatred that we had for stocks
will now turn into love.
But first the last bull must be slain
"the bottom's in" cleared from refrain;
Who'll be the last man on the train,
Who'll wear the iron glove?

Schön nicht?

André



<center>

<HR>

</center>