Fair fa' your honest, Z/Yen face,
Great chieftain o' the think-tank race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Weel are ye wordy o'a grace
Wi thrumpit agnews
The groaning Long Finance ye fill,
Your hurdies like yon John Stuart Mill,
Your pin wad help to jump a Cliff
In time o'need,
As yon Obama needs yon Geithner
In time o'nightmare
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
Wee Milliboy saw nae but slight
An' missed the point o whit oh whit
His brither ditched
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Salm-ond, maist like to rive,
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' ravin
On sic a Ratin?
Poor Bruegel! see him owre his trash,
As feckles as wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;
His nieve a nit;
Thro' blody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Z/Yen-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' trissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Z/Yen wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer
Gie him a haggis!
By George Littlejohn, 25 January 2013