They swagger, these gifts of the gods
Draped in Savile Row
Handmade brogues squeaking
Signalling their advance
Sleek terminals flashing green and red
The latest billions to be made
Orchestrated by one perfectly manicured digit
A rarefied world, this domain of the trader
Tiger women diluting the testosterone just enough
To become the next female BSD.
(I don’t have the balls
In all senses of the word).
They all walk and talk a good game
Ride the highs and lows with aplomb
Possessing animalistic grace, a certain panache
Revelling in the glory, drowning the losses in Moët & Chandon
Or inside their bonus-bought classic car
Seats rubbed smooth with 90mph sex and cocaine
Shagging the pressure away in a City side street.
Rare beasts, these,
Stalking, hunting down that one trade
Chasing mammon, winner takes all
But I wonder, when it comes down to it
When I see those who drew the short straw
Carrying their belongings in a cardboard box
Incongruously shabby against their Cartier adornments
Leaving their ivory tower for the last time
Facing down the cameras as journalists hunt in packs
Trading titillation for the headline news
I wonder – do they think it was worth it, after all?