Funny Finance Poem

Ode to My Broker (Who Probably Drives a Better Car)

My broker’s name is Bartholomew, a man of wealth and flair,
He calls me “sport” and pats my back, then whispers in my hair,
Of leveraged plays and triple gains, a future bright and bold,
While my portfolio, truth be told, is looking rather old.

He talks of yachts and private jets, and villas by the sea,
Suggesting I should re-mortgage, to invest more heavily.
He says, “Think big, my dear old chap! Risk’s just another game!”
Then charges fees that make me gasp, and leaves me feeling lame.

I dreamt last night of balance sheets, and dividends so small,
A bear market danced a jig, and threatened to enthrall.
My savings dwindled, shrunk, and sighed, then vanished in the night,
Replaced by Bartholomew’s smirking, bathed in golden light.

The market dips? “A buying chance!” He chirps with boundless glee.
The market soars? “I told you so! See what you get with me!”
He’s always right, it seems to me, regardless of the trend,
Though somehow, strangely, consistently, my money’s at an end.

I tried to diversify, you see, to bonds and precious things,
But Bartholomew just scoffed and said, “My friend, you lack the wings!
To soar above the common herd, and reach financial bliss!
Now buy these penny stocks I know, it’s practically a kiss!”

I’m sure he means the very best, this Bartholomew of mine,
Perhaps his advice is quite superb, a truly brilliant sign.
But gazing at my empty purse, a question plagues my mind,
Is he building his own empire, one clueless client at a time?

So here I sit, a pauper now, yet strangely feeling free,
No more late-night anxiety, no more frantic reverie.
I’ll learn to bake, or knit, perhaps, a simpler life to lead,
And leave the complicated world of finance to the greedy seed.

And Bartholomew? I hope he sails, upon his azure sea,
Remembering the little guy who paid his hefty fee.
Perhaps he’ll think of me and smile, and whisper to the breeze,
“Another fool, another pile, brought gladly to his knees!”