Very Model of a Modern Finance Analyst

The Finance Analyst Song

Note: this parody of the banking crisis is meant to be sung to the tune of The Major--General's Song from the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta The Pirates of Penzance, fast-paced in what is known as a "patter song" style. You can just read it normally if you want, but sing it and I guarentee it'll stick in your head whether you want it or not!

Enjoy!

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I am the very model of a mod’rn finance analyst
I work with sums so complex they’d confuse a rocket scientist
In maths I gained first class degrees from Oxford and from Camb-e-ridge
By threatening to throw my tutors off the Darwin College Bridge

A quant they call me, means I count the value of most everything
From bottle tops to every leaf of tea that passes through Bejing
The urge to quantify’s so strong in me it almost is a sin
I’ll even count the angels that are dancing on the smallest pin

Financial instruments I play as if they were an orchestra
From mortgages to gilts and shares, each one succumbs to algebra
I rate them all from double D to neat and firm and perky A
But you would be the tit my friend if you believe a word I say

My peers all think my numbers dance, my figurework is magical
Unless it’s your investment then I’m sure you’ll find it tragical
The slightest oops deep down inside the way my spreadsheet calculates
Means right before your eyes your entire pension pot evaporates

I slice and dice bad mortgages and stitch to make a better one
Then flog it off to some poor mug who cannot spot what I have done
Your home I have one tenth now sold to some old chap in Singapore
It’s far too late to complain now, your domicile is yours no more

Complexity’s my friend, you see my footsteps I will obfuscate
My work is far too complex for another man to replicate
My bosses understand it not, they take my word as gospel truth
While all the time I make it up with bullshit spouted off the hoof

Confidence is what I’ve got in spades that number millions
Enough to shrug my shoulders at the loss of sev’ral billions
I smile my knowing expert smile, so brill-i-ant I have you see
Convinced the entire banking world that one and one sum up to three
 
My house of cards builds higher still, my profits soar, my rivals pissed
They say I can’t go on forever, surely there is something missed
And missed there is, they do not know my golden handshake’s signed and sealed
And I don’t care that when I cashed it every institution reeled

For I am safe and sound upon my lux’ry yacht to Monaco
Bikini babes upon each knee as markets crash and defaults grow
A mod’rn model eighties child I took it too its bitter end
And penury’s in store for you my mod’rn model bankrupt friend

Now I don’t care if you must work ‘til you’re an oct’genarian
Or if the Brit economy’s knocked back to the agrarian
I’ve got my place staked out for life upon the Times Most Richest List
I am the very mo-del of a mod’rn fi-nance an-a-lyst
 

Other "daft ditty" poems by Bruce Officer:

Poke Wars

Talking to the Boobies