George Gordon, a.k.a. Lord Byron (1788-1824), was one of those intensely arrogant and well-meaning English aristocrats who loved a good cause as long as he could lead it. To give the man his due, though, he did have the decency to die in one of these ill-conceived enterprises. When he wrote in the nineteenth century, ‘sensitivity’ was very much in vogue, and it’s said that even grown men of a dyspeptic dispositions cried unashamedly upon reading his verse. My own version of one of his most famous efforts, "She Walks In Beauty Like the Night," is called "She Walks To Work at Goldman Sachs." If this one makes you cry, see an optometrist.
She Walks To Work
At Goldman Sachs
She walks to work at Goldman Sachs
At crack of dawn each bus’ness day,
And all the praise put out by flacks
About her marv’lous market play
Seems tepid ‘gainst the simple facts
That what she picks gets up and quacks.
One option more, one future less
Would make this guru look unfit,
And raise a cry of great distress
Among the clients who take the hit,
But she with streetwise insights blessed
By market slides seems never bit.
And from those lips, and out that mouth
Come soothing words so soft and purry,
Of deals that rise and ne’er go south
And risks for which you’re never sorry;
A face devoid of frowns and pouts
A voice that coos: "What me worry?"
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