The Blight After Citron’s Mess: A Derivative Little Jingle
‘Twas the month before Christmas and all through Orange County,
Everyone was happy, expecting great bounty.
The people were primed for holiday cheer,
Recession had ended, the good times were here.
The supes were nestled, all snug in their chairs,
With power and perks, they put on great airs.
The investment fund had been managed with care,
In the hopes that big payoffs soon would be there.
When suddenly from Wall Street there arose such a clatter,
The supes had to wake up to see what was the matter.
“The news is not good,” mumbled CAO Schneider,
His face grew contorted; was there rum in his cider?
“You remember that fund that had billions in it?”
“It’s plummeting faster than a New York minute.”
“Tell me you’re joking,” said Harriett Wieder.
“But if you’re not, I’ll have a double Beefeater.”
“How could this happen?” asked a stunned Tom Riley.
“Wasn’t our strategy thought out and wily?”
“Apparently not,” said morose Ernie Schneider;
Harriett blanched; Gaddi threw up beside her.
They cursed Bob Citron; cast a pox on his house;
Yesterday, they loved him; but, now, what a louse.
He purchased derivatives; no one asked how;
His investment pool was a steady cash cow.
Citron delivered; they said he had prowess;
But now his career was being measured in hours.
“We must fire Citron,” the board all agreed,
“Put distance between us, with all due speed.”
“Could we say we don’t know him, could we say we were dubious?”
“Could we say we feared that some day he would ruin us?”
“Let’s call him reckless, a maniacal boob.”
But, alas, the toothpaste was out of the tube.
The supes pleaded ignorance, said they weren’t the Grinch,
They pointed desperately toward Merrill Lynch.
They huddled again, as baffled as ever;
They wanted advice, the quicker the better.
Their financial adviser suggested bankruptcy,
Supes threw up their hands; the adviser said, “Trust me.”
A two-part plan to solve Citrongate:
Declare bankruptcy and then liquidate.
“Can we do that?” asked the supes, now quite glum.
“Either that,” they were told, “or be hung by your thumbs.”
“Oh, God,” each supe said, “I wish I were dead.”
“Politically, you are,” the public all said.
Faced with disaster, the supes had no druthers,
Their hopes for salvation lay with Salomon Bros.
Deep down, the supes knew it was they who had blown it,
Their hope was that voters would somehow condone it.
But not to be fooled, voters demanded the supes
Step down at once and admit they were dupes.
While Riley and Wieder were already weaning,
Some said the board needed a total housecleaning.
“Out Stanton and Steiner, and take Gaddi too!”
“Dash away, dash away, we’ll surely make do.”
The supes held their ground but grew ever more queasy,
When into the fray jumped the D.A., Capizzi.
“How can we govern under such a condition?”
“Everywhere we look, the Securities and Exchange Commission.”
Now, cities and schools sift through the rubble,
Wondering how to escape from such dire trouble.
‘Tis a pity at Christmas that all have the blues,
What a terrible way to make the national news.
And as for Bob Citron, that once-merry elf?
What does he have to say for himself?
After years of asking for the public’s votes,
He repaid their faith with a bunch of bad notes.
Not a peep, not a wink as he faded from view,
Just a “Merry Christmas to all; too bad you got screwed.”
Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, Calif. 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.
