Hardly Bob Dylan: More like for The Byrds


Hey Mr. Alan Greenspan play along with me, I'm not greedy, but there ain't no place to retire to. Hey Mr. Alan Greenspan, play along with me, An' my IRA will soar with boneheads followin' you.

Take me to the room where you guys all decide the rates, With no public debates, you cast away our fates, Waitin' only for the networks to come fawnin, The business cycle threatens me, you try to push and pull, You feed us loads of bull, you really are just full. Of it and most of us investors sit here yawnin’.


Take me for a trip while you exuberantly quip, My net worth has been stripped, my holdings are a blip, There on the screen where I keep my portfolio, Your pompous oratory gags me, just one thing is clear, I've had it up to here, your whole corrupt career, makes politicians cheer, You let'em off the hook, for taxes that they took, you oughtta throw the book. At' em for linin' all their pockets with the dough we owe.


Then take Ms. Martha Stewart off in handcuffs for her crime, You'll make us feel sublime, while our dollar's worth a dime, Let Jesse Jackson coin a rhyme, while Martha serves her time, And while you whine about her greed, we'll know you're fakin' it, We bust our asses, workin’ hard just tryin' to compete, it's hard to make ends meet, Sometimes we're on the street, but victory is sweet, if our products really sell, You're the politicians' pal, and they tax us all to hell, It's our hard-earned money, and you crooks are takin' it.

(Chorus, over and out)

August 19, 2002

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