The jolly merchant bankers are a rare and special breed
Delighting in their numbers and the quest for feral greed
They buy and sell and speculate and hunt in packs like hounds
Smelling blood when weakness shows in the euro or the pound
Pension funds, hopes and dreams and stability take the hit
When things go wrong, it's rare for them to be neck deep in the shit
They'll make their loadsa money at the market's growth or bang
I reckon that "Merchant Banker" must be cockney rhyming slang

 

The jolly merchant bankers are a mercenary bunch
Eager to make a killing on the slightest little hunch
For who needs sense or reason when there's hard cash to be had?
They can always pretend later that they really aren't that bad
Then wail that the press go after them when jobs are on the line
They'll find refuge in their London clubs, they'll find a place to dine
"We got that one wrong", they might say, and concede a point or two
While really not giving a thought, to the likes of me and you

 

The jolly merchant bankers are a delightful little clan
Eyes burning with intelligence while robbing their fellow man
Splashing cash around the bars, driving me insane
Rarely taking responsibility and dodging pain and blame
But watching screens and yelling may be the definition of duress
As they retire at 35 and claim they're burnt-out with the stress
But with a tidy pile stashed away, they can boast when with their gang
Yes, I reckon that "Merchant Banker" must be cockney rhyming slang

 

Written after reading this great poem by Jonathan Humble:  http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=55719