Whenever Gordon Gekko went down town,
We people stoned on Wall Street looked at him:
He was a man bespoked from suit to crown,
A Master of the Universe, shark-skinned.
And his lapels were always high worsted,
And he was always Sun Tzu when he talked;
But still he fluttered bulls’ blood when he said,
"Greed is good," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than LaBoeuf—
And morally hazardous ev’ry place:
Like Saturn eating his son in French cuffs
A London or Manhattan state of grace.
So on we worked, and piled bubble cash,
And extended ARM loans, and spent bad checks;
And Gordon Gekko, waiting for the crash,
Got up and wrapped spread collars ‘round his neck.
Review adapted from Edward Arlington Robinson’s “Richard Cory.”
Read White Tank Top cultural commentary and reviews biweekly on CAB and at whitetanktop.blogspot.com.