The ETH

arises early to launder cash, 
never takes a bath, 
browses hedge fun clippings, 
and, without onus on its bonuses, 
peruses futures. 
  
Morphing in gilded parachute 
draped with spreadsheet shreds, 
in miasmic drafts The ETH 
levitates above the bottom line, 
too taxed to break bread 
with those whose homes 
sit humbled numbers. 
  
With hidden interests offshore, 
few of its accounts succumbed. 
  
The ETH checks what’s on its plate. 
Chomps stunned newlyweds 
Phillip and Jian Torres-Chang. 
Gulps the widow Platnik for dessert. 
  
Then, stock responses: 
burps, grunts, 
belches stench, 
dials a talk show host 
who vilifies “this government’s 
grip upon the free market, 
despoiling our nation’s lifeblood.” 
  
The ETH sniggers, 
slurps fed suckers clean, 
retracts slimy haunches in repose— 
                and waits.