Eulogy on a London Jobber
Now profit seems a dirty word,
or so some fine folk say!
but as I feel that is absurd,
at stocks and shares I play.
Bold timing’s ever right - you ‘eard, -
it never fails to pay!
Old Boy, my judgement’s never erred,
there’s no one can gainsay!
I deal in scraps, true size or block,
game in my box I sit,
I feel perhaps too wise, poor cock, -
tame brokers ‘elp a bit!
Should button seek to shop ‘is stock,
I’m ‘ere to ‘elp ‘im do it,
for every joker I would mock,
rehocking at a profit.
I always buy at bottom rock,
at the top, I ‘op it,
if you consider that I shock,
fortune’s fair - you’re forfeit.
I pit my wits, job round the clock,
each day the market’s ope,
there is no-one I’d rob or knock,
I won’t push paper, mope!
Its all a question of control,
of bluff and double bluff!
As market maker I’ve my role,
the smooth comes with the rough!
I trade, and though scare bears may raid,
‘tis seldom that I’m caught;
and if, as said, I am well paid,
I’m just as seldom short!
Whenever challenged or waylayed,
I’m never overwrought,
I’m cool, collected, calm and staid, -
For jobbing’s such a sport!
It’s all great fun, though true ‘tis said
its full of danger fraught,
but if I never am afraid,
‘tis ‘cause I am self-taught.
Democracy despises wealth,
aught but ‘ard labour spurns!
Jobbing’s just great, it ‘elps me ‘ealth,
I like to take those turns!
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0029_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX 12 January 1975
Elegy on a London Jobber
Around the pristine walls of neon glass
the London jobber posts by pillared cell, -
to take a turn, Old Boy, to buy or sell.
He shares his pitch with others of his class,
and pitches shares while brokers pell-mell pass, -
marks red to buttons blue as green as grass.
Bell rings. He takes the call which spells shell’s knell,
then calls the take, fulfilling function well, -
tied to the Old School system, - silly farce!
Too many heads swell, barter gold for brass.
Though sun still shines, most squander hay - their bell
will toll, and toll-free shall machines excel,
matchless in matching bargains to surpass
those who for short hours, for fat pay, alas,
play both sides of the coin, bulls, bears, harass,
between fear, greed, prey – arbitrage cartel.
Hammered – Fate prepares a fond farewell
for all who take for granted “vie est belle! ”
© Jonathan Robin robi3_0126_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX 28 November 1976
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Elegy on a London Jobber
Around the pristine walls of neon glass
the London jobber posts by pillared cell, -
to take a turn, Old Boy, to buy or sell.
He shares his pitch with others of his class,
and pitches shares while brokers pell-mell pass, -
marks red to buttons blue as green as grass.
Bell rings. He takes the call which spells shell’s knell,
then calls the take, fulfilling function well, -
tied to the Old School system, - silly farce!
Too many heads swell, barter gold for brass.
Though sun still shines, most squander hay - their bell
will toll, and toll-free shall machines excel,
matchless in matching bargains to surpass
those who for short hours, for fat pay, alas,
play both sides of the coin, bulls, bears, harass,
between fear, greed, prey – arbitrage cartel.
Hammered – Fate prepares a fond farewell
for all who take for granted “vie est belle! ”
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Investment Apology
Investment Apology
In this air I do aspire
to appeal and make aware, -
Allah answer all anger -
else ague appear and attract ire
Bait can but bate the buyer!
Brokers must the market bear,
bidding board while bulls be bear,
blare is bare and boars betire.
Why cry the creator’s choir?
Calm your coma, clear your care!
Come, seek and call the cover.
Can still the chartists’ charts inquire!
Dost dearly dollar desire?
Dabbler dare, don’t disappear, -
dealer’s drear or in despair,
His strait’s dire, his coffer drier.
Fear a further fall to fire?
That your future fare be fair
find a fella full of flair,
full of feel for a fine flier.
Th’institutional investor,
out of gear, he tears his hair.
Interest rates round here I hear
High, hint heavily hunt higher.
The alphabet is far too long
to continue this careless song,
so here’s to hope, and let us pray
tomorrow brings a brighter day.
19 June 1974
Paris Parley Parle_19740607_The Market today could go either way ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0007_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
London Fog - 0023
Fog hangs heavy in London air,
brokers rest but for a prayer;
eyes aghast, souls in despair,
seeking business everywhere.
Bargains booked throughout the day
decline in number, then don't pay.
All about them makes them say:
'No more at market will we play! '
(12 December 1974)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Play in Words
PLAY IN WORDS
Work short
long face
actless
artless
actress
stops short
song trace
10 April 2005
robi03_1178_robi03_0000 XXX_JXX
Play in Words poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Memorabilia of Last Week
Monday, March 13, 1826
The Budget - quite charming and witty - no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it; --
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.
What, still more prosperity! - mercy upon us,
"This boy'll be the death of me" - oft as, already,
Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us,
For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.
Tuesday
Much grave apprehension express'd by the Peers,
Lest -- calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts --
The large stock of gold we're to have in three years,
Should all find its way into highwayman's pockets![1]
Wednesday
Little doing - for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art
To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table --
When the Members all meet, to make much of that part
With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.
It appear'd, though, to-night, that - as churchwardens, yearly,
Eat up a small baby - those cormorant sinners,
The Bankrupt-Commissioners bolt very nearly
A moderate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2]
Nota bene - a rumour to-day, in the City,
"Mr. R-b-ns-n just has resign'd" - what a pity!
The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing,
When they heard of the fate of poor Cock Robin;
While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty,
A murmuring Stock-dove breath'd her ditty: --
"Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd as long
And as sweet as a prosperous Cock could crow;
Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?"
"I," said the Bank, "though he play'd me a prank,
When I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in 't,
With many a pound I'll paper him round,
Like a plump rouleau - without the gold in 't."
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Beyond Straitjackets - 1567 - May 2008 Version
Life's pattern shifts as time from time's thread stock
mutates or waits on catalyst to key
into, through, metamorphosis to see
beyond historic references' lock
beyond straitjackets that clear thinking block.
The answer may not individuality
be seen to be but way we Destiny
engage in path unique as life's short clock
tic tocs from birth to berth, first shock, last dock.
Genes seldom hold free-will or equity
in fee - to Darwin contradictory -
dreams, compromise, from each bloom, blow half-cock.
Through open options, opportunity,
each may advance, find wings, at last feel free
(24 May 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Martha
SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
Her weary hands their labor cease;
Good night, poor Martha,-- sleep in peace!
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
For many a year has Martha said,
"I'm old and poor,-- would I were dead!"
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
She'll bring no more, by day or night,
Her basket full of linen white.
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
'Tis fitting she should lie below
A pure white sheet of drifted snow.
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light,
Where all the robes are stainless white.
Toll the bell!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
O death, rock me on sleep
O death! rock me on sleep,
Bring me on quiet rest;
Yet pass my guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast:
Toll on the passing bell,
Ring out the doleful knell,
Let the sound of my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die.
My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolor will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Alone, in prison strong,
I wail my destiny,
Wo worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my present pain;
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now the passing bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For the sound my death doth tell,
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound my end dolefully,
For now I die.
poem by Anne Boleyn (1536)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
Faithless Ben Simon - Parody Gilles Menage, Thomas Hood, Faithless Nellie Gray,
Ben Simon was a broker bold
who’d turned his share of crashes,
the recent slump his stumps had bowled
with shares returned to ashes.
Then as they hammered him from ‘Change,
he stammered “with a spread
I might my spread keep, not exchange
my blue bloods, in the red! ”
Head watch-dogs dogged his tracks before
he suddenly made tracks,
and headed south ahead of four
headlines in weekend tracts.
Though contracts signed seemed so well heeled, -
the heel – but yet inside a
good deal of each deal he had wheeled
were bad contacts insider!
Although he swore an open book
each trade was ‘fore bear raid,
betrayed, he soon was brought to book
and in the dock arrayed.
The moral of this tale, who knows?
Fools’ gold will e’er attract,
but details missed, or jealous foes
woe’s tales tell, ‘tis a fact...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Timed Thread
Pattern shifts as time from time’s t[h]read stock
mutates or waits on catalyst to key
into, through, metamorphosis to see
beyond historic references’ lock
beyond straitjackets that clear thinking block.
The answer may not individuality
be seen to be but ways which destiny
choice negociates as life’s short clock
tic tocs from birth to berth, first shock, last dock.
Genes seldom hold free-will or equity
in fee - to Darwin contradictory -
from bloom to tomb dreams compromised half-cock.
Through open options, opportunity,
Mankind high rises evolution’s tree.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nerves, up to Date - after Olga Katzin Miller
Nerves, up to Date
I think I’ll call At Home, Excite,
I think my cell phone’s down,
imagine being on a flight
that struck Manhattan town.
From CNN to Internet
both buildings, markets, crash
scare fare flies fast, none know as yet,
our confidence was rash.
Rumour rampant rises high
relief seems rather slow
comparisons are sad and wry
as DJ sinks too low,
It’s just like Black September –
absurd how Time loops still –
since ever we remember
time cycles round at will!
I can’t stroll round, cement and glass
at skittles play with men,
I can’t just stay inside and pass
for an energumen.
It looks like twin tornadoes struck
ground zero to the dust,
within five years or so with luck
we’ll build it back, we must!
A Boeing here, a Boeing there, –
that this should come to be! –
FBI where? Fib everywhere,
- what difference to me!
I think I’ll roll a joint or two,
or pour another drink,
I really don’t know what to do, –
should I consult my shrink?
Since cell phones point to point fell through,
its like a traffic jam,
its pointless trying, none get through
since terrorists did slam
into our symbol buildings tall
which failed to stand the test,
imploding – concrete, glass and all –
curse those who Islam blessed!
They say three planes diverted,
another on the blink,
it seems as if we’ve skirted
round Armageddon’s brink.
They say one plane the President
was meant to turn to flame,
they say the terrorists were sent
to burn in Allah’s name!
I see the army’s lost its cool,
and self-control is gone,
the nation’s nerves from shop to school
crashed with the Pentagon.
Tomorrow who will get the blame,
and will it be deserved? –
the world will not remain the same,
though still by liars served...
11 September 2001
Parody Olga KATZIN Miller 1896_1987 Nerves
Nerves Up to Date_20010911_I think I'll call At Home, Excite ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0951_robi3_0000 PXX_JOX
ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0951_katz1_0004 PXX_JOX Nerves Up to Date_I think I'll call At Home, Excite
Nerves
I think I’ll get a paper,
I think I’d better wait.
I’ll hear the news at six o’clock,
That’s much more up to date.
It’s just like last September,
Absurd how time stands still;
They’re bound to make a statement.
I don’t suppose they will.
I think I’d better stroll around
Perhaps it’s best to stay.
I think I’ll have a whisky neat,
I can’t this time of day.
I think I’ll have another smoke.
I don’t know what to do.
I promised to ring someone up,
I can’t remember who.
They say it’s been averted,
They say we’re on the brink.
I’ll wait for the ‘New Statesman’,
I wonder what they think.
They’re shouting. It’s a Special.
It’s not. It’s just street cries.
I think the heat is frightful,
God damn these bloody flies!
I see the nation’s keeping cool,
The public calm is fine.
This crisis can’t shake England’s nerves: -
It’s playing hell with mine!
Olga KATZIN-MILLER 1896_1987 katz1_0004_katz1_0000 PXX_JXX
Sagitarrius Rhyming 1940 - Written 2 September 1939
_____________
Panic
I think I'll get a paper,
I think I’ll watch the news.
I need to know what’s going on,
I’m running out of booze.
It’s just like that October
The year before the last.
I think I’ll play some Haydn
Until the storm has passed.
I’ll ask my local bookie,
He’s sure to know what’s what.
I’ll ring the Bank of England,
I think I’d better not.
I think I’ll read a thriller
Or a Mills and Boon romance.
I think I’ll look at Question Time,
I think I’ll fill my pants.
They say it won’t affect us,
They say perhaps it will.
They say the market’s healthy.
I wish I weren’t so ill.
They’re goint to raise my mortgage,
They’re calling in the loans.
I wonder what the F.T. thinks,
And who the hell’s Dow Jones?
I can’t imagine what effect
These experts that you see
Will have upon our enemies,
But God, they frighten me.
Roger WODDIS 1917_1993
Parody Olga KATZIN Miller 1896_1987 – Nerves
WODDIS Roger 1917_1993 wodd1_0006_katz1_0004 PXX_JXX Panic_I think I'll get a paper
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Across the Bourse - 0116 - Initial Version
To gall, then gloom, did bear incline
Through Gaul when doom bid share decline.
I
once, twixt the spying strollers saw
dunce sixty sighing brokers sore.
Where skill may still preserve or flaw,
there ill they will deserve a floor.
Sots, they(re no hedge, nor ever sure,
whats their knowledge? poor, never more.
They'd steer, ears bent, cold rumour's roar,
strayed, veer, fearslent, old humours bore,
for where they read stock set to soar,
your share may red b[l]ock net blue score.
They've Will to lend on margin small
Save till, true end, gone Charge in call!
Fie!
(1 April 1976)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
O Death, O Death, Rock Me Asleep
O Death, O Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest;
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
My pains, my pains, who can express?
Alas, they are so strong!
My dolours will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Alone, alone in prison strong
I wail my destiny:
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Must taste this misery!
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Farewell, farewell, my pleasures past!
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torment so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now, thou passing bell,
Ring out my doleful knoll,
For thou my death dost tell:
Lord, pity thou my soul!
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound dolefully:
For now I die,
I die, I die.
O Death, O Death, Rock Me Asleep
O Death, O Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest;
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
My pains, my pains, who can express?
Alas, they are so strong!
My dolours will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Alone, alone in prison strong
I wail my destiny:
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Must taste this misery!
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Thy sound my death abroad will tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy.
Farewell, farewell, my pleasures past!
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torment so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now, thou passing bell,
Ring out my doleful knoll,
For thou my death dost tell:
Lord, pity thou my soul!
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound dolefully:
For now I die,
I die, I die.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Spring Market’s Worn - OR - 'Sell In May And Go Away
The spring market’s worn,
intraday charts hearts warn;
by evening at seven
all margin’s in pawn.
The lark’s lost its (s) wing
though some siren still sing, -
no God and no heaven -
all's wrong, buyers mourn!
The worm’s in the bud,
the spring sees fall’s thud,
cheek earns cheeks too dew-pearl’d,
earns gold turned to mud.
Rosy tassels are torn,
nosy hassles are born,
thorny protests are hurled,
cosy nest-eggs o’er-drawn.
Markdown sours everything -
triple witching hour’s sting -
stockmarket wrings hands
hope at bell’s ring disbands.
Bears fête, bulls foresworn,
short sale corners scorn,
the blue flags are furled -
all’s red with the world!
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In a Pretty Pickle
Sweltering Bagdad: cold sweat dichotomy
between electricity grid lock
and green zone security block,
hot air surge in a pretty pickle.
(6 August 2007 robi03_1663_robi03_0000 XXX_JXX)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hell
Hell
Hell is where
flower fair
is pictured
in pitcher
rather
than in the
arms of our
Earth mother.
Finer
free from fear
© Jonathan Robin 4 January 1970
Hell_19700104_Hell is where flower fair ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0002_robi3_0000 XXX_MXX
ROBIN Jonathan 1947_20xx robi3_0002_robi3_0000 XXX_MXX Hell_Hell is where flower fair
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Crucial Questions 0927 Initial Version
All life links into chains whose sk[e]ins evolve
as day and night spin round the seasons' clock.
Accelerating change makes Mankind mock
old cycles - life leaves little space to solve
its crucial questions before we dissolve
as dust, forgotten before we unlock
doors to answers which - if found - would shock.
None know ‘Why? , When? ' intrinsically involve
uncertainty, Man, self-fed, cannot solve
lies turning truths which on life's door may knock.
This implies more than information stock
as Life's equations cause/effect revolve
round wisdom from within which seeks the way
to find ‘true answers' during its short stay...
(12 March 2001)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
He Is A Trier
He once was a man who owned greyhounds going back a few decades ago
But for them he was all the poorer the dogs that he owned were too slow
And now he has shares in a racehorse but for that he's not a wealthier man
The race horse though well bred is quite ordinary as they say one more also ran
With greyhounds and horses he has had it this horse he does swear is his last
Venture in the greyhound or horse racing business these things he will put to his past
Any spare cash he has he'll invest in stocks and bonds with a far greater chance of success
It is due to greyhounds and horses that he is in a financial mess
He has erred twice but never again greyhounds and horses are now in his past
The horse has never run a place the greyhounds just could not run fast
Dabbling in the stock market his newest business venture trading on stocks and shares he will try
Fortune favours the brave some will tell you this time luck him may not deny
But never more greyhounds or horses for his mistakes he has had to pay
But credit him he is a trier and good times for him may not be far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Platitudes Refused
Platitudes are proffered where they please
And even where anathama as well
To bestow trite title, - few truth tell -
Refused where true respect feels ill at ease.
In writing in this princely style, no knees
Conscience cracks as chalk's not cheese to swell
King and khan or knight. Know most are shell
Clad in courage claimed, create false frieze.
As you alone the answers have, I seize
Real reverence, rely on no crude spell
Rewritten and pretend true rings. A knell
Awaits he who, flattering, gleans fees.
Llama coats can last, though only you
Enjoy the duffle which warms greatly too!
NOTE:
External acrostic Patrick Carrale repeated once vertically and twice diagonally from the centre
[c] Jonathan Robin Polyacrostic Palimpsest written 2 January 1992
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!