Thou, who wert conceived 'neath a furrowed brow,
and flew, full-formed, from some accountant's mind,
To succor those who fear the morrow's Dow.
Softly, thou caress all things bottom-lined,
and offer hopeful dawns to those wary
warriors, who beg markets to be kind.
Like mystic gods, or a Grimm's Tale fairy
you gaily spew some unworldly number,
that will hide blunders we hope to bury.
The Board, as always, they gently slumber,
assuming profits (that alone thou make).
Graphs we send, their minds to not encumber.
O Mighty One, no more must we create!
Only beg our hardware: "Depreciate!"