Jonathan ROBIN

Freshman - 746 Points (22 September / London)

Eulogy On A London Jobber - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Now profit seems a dirty word,
or so some fine folk say!
but as I feel that is absurd,
at stocks and shares I play.

Bold timing’s ever right - you ‘eard, -
it never fails to pay!
Old Boy, my judgement’s never erred,
there’s no one can gainsay!

I deal in scraps, true size or block,
game in my box I sit,
I feel perhaps too wise, poor cock, -
tame brokers ‘elp a bit!

Should button seek to shop ‘is stock,
I’m ‘ere to ‘elp ‘im do it,
for every joker I would mock,
rehocking at a profit.

I always buy at bottom rock,
at the top, I ‘op it,
if you consider that I shock,
fortune’s fair - you’re forfeit.

I pit my wits, job round the clock,
each day the market’s ope,
there is no-one I’d rob or knock,
I won’t push paper, mope!

Its all a question of control,
of bluff and double bluff!
As market maker I’ve my role,
the smooth comes with the rough!

I trade, and though scare bears may raid,
‘tis seldom that I’m caught;
and if, as said, I am well paid,
I’m just as seldom short!

Whenever challenged or waylayed,
I’m never overwrought,
I’m cool, collected, calm and staid, -
For jobbing’s such a sport!

It’s all great fun, though true ‘tis said
its full of danger fraught,
but if I never am afraid,
‘tis ‘cause I am self-taught.

Democracy despises wealth,
aught but ‘ard labour spurns!
Jobbing’s just great, it ‘elps me ‘ealth,
I like to take those turns!

© Jonathan Robin robi3_0029_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX 12 January 1975

Elegy on a London Jobber

Around the pristine walls of neon glass
the London jobber posts by pillared cell, -
to take a turn, Old Boy, to buy or sell.
He shares his pitch with others of his class,
and pitches shares while brokers pell-mell pass, -
marks red to buttons blue as green as grass.
Bell rings. He takes the call which spells shell’s knell,
then calls the take, fulfilling function well, -
tied to the Old School system, - silly farce!

Too many heads swell, barter gold for brass.
Though sun still shines, most squander hay - their bell
will toll, and toll-free shall machines excel,
matchless in matching bargains to surpass
those who for short hours, for fat pay, alas,
play both sides of the coin, bulls, bears, harass,
between fear, greed, prey – arbitrage cartel.
Hammered – Fate prepares a fond farewell
for all who take for granted “vie est belle! ”

© Jonathan Robin robi3_0126_robi3_0000 XXX_JXX 28 November 1976

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, October 12, 2006

Poem Edited: Saturday, October 16, 2010

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