FW: from tim torkildson

 

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THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT PANHANDLER (with apologies to Coleridge's Ancient Mariner)
 
It is an ancient panhandler
and he stoppeth one of three.
By thy long beard and hinky eye
why dost thou pick on me?
The Nicollet Mall is open wide
and I am late for work;
here's a quarter, you old bum,
now go back to your murk.
He holds me with his dirty hand:
There was a time, quoth he,
there was a time when all the world
would list to none but me!
And so I sat upon a stone.
I cannot choose but hear
what the ancient Panhandler
is trying to make clear.
The whole world wanted my advice
on money matters, fast --
until I came a cropper
from the economy's rude blast.
'Twas like an albatross had laid
a load upon my head;
banks, investors, all alike,
all now did cut me dead.
The sun now rose upon the right
and now upon the left,
but my own sun had set for good.
Of cash I was bereft.
Credit, credit, everywhere,
yet all the banks did shrink.
Credit, credit, everywhere,
'twas like the missing link.
The very deep did rot, oy vay!
That ever this should be!
Yes, slimy things did crawl with legs
on radio, TV.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
did wag without regard
with mindless cogitations
on the fate of credit card.
"I fear thee, ancient Panhandler!"
"I fear thy filthy hand!"
"And thou are long and lank and stink
like burning rubber band!"
"Fear not, fear not! thou stroller mild"
"I bathe once every week"
"My soul is in such agony"
"that to thee I must speak."
Beyond the shadow of a doubt
I spied some water snakes;
they moved in tracks of bright pin-stripes,
a bunch of Wall Street fakes.
And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear.
It issued from the president
and made me shed a tear.
And now my spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the money green
and looked far forth for a career
but found things mighty lean.
But soon I heard the dash of oars.
My rescue seemed assured --
until I lost my house and then
my vision, it went blurred.
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
dependent on the alms
of those who think of charity
without cold selfish qualms.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
to thee, thou stroller blest --
He preyeth well who lieth well
to even Wedding-Guest.
He went like one who hath been stunned
and is of sense forlorn--
no doubt there's more will join him
who have recently been shorn.
 

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