William Wordsworth’s charming verse, "Written in March," hails the coming of a new spring. My own "Written in September" bemoans the approach of what could turn out to be a very nasty fall (in both senses of that word) for U.S. and world markets.
Written In September
The market’s sinking,
I’ve started drinking;
I’m long past fearing,
I’m plain despairing;
There’s no end of bad news in sight.
Business is slowing,
War clouds are growing,
The weather’s fluky,
It’s getting spooky,
There’s nothing that seems to go right.
I miss the fey nine-ties,
The get-it-all-now sleaze;
As fraud laws get tougher,
Portfolios suffer;
This honesty’s starting to bite.
Official assurance,
Just tries my endurance;
The more they are cheery,
The more they are scary;
My hopes for improvement are slight.
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