'Twas the night before bonus day, when all through Goldman Sachs
Not a board member was kvetching, not even Claes Dahlback.
The stock offerings were underwritten, by the bankers with care,
In hopes that big bonuses would soon be there.
The associates were nestled, very drunk in their beds
While visions of greenbacks slow-danced in their heads.
And Lloyd in his ascot, and Cohn in his cap
Had just hunkered down for a long late-night chat.
When outside 200 West there arose such a clatter
Lloyd sprang from his corner office to see what was the matter.
Away to the window Cohn flew like a flash,
Gary tore open the shutters and threw down some cash.
A boy in whose hands held pure new-fallen snow
And up came the goods on a helluva throw.
When, what to Lloyd's widening pupil should appear,
But a stretch Hummer H3, and eight tiny first-years.
With a little French driver, wearing Le Coq Sportif,
Lloyd knew in a moment it must be that Fabrice.
More rapid than short-sell orders his analysts they came
Fab Fab hooted and hollered and (en Francais) called them by name:
"Maintenant, Anton! Maintenant, André! Maintenant, Gaston et Frédéric!
Allez, Grégoire! Allez, Léon! Allez, Henri et Aimee!
To the top of the org chart! to the height of HQ!
Let's cash in large, cash in large, cash in me and you!"
Unlike that Abacus deal, which was doomed from the start,
Fab Fab's spirit was bright, seated in that very long car.
So up to the headquarters-top his analysts they flew,
With the Hummer full of boys, and one female banker too.
And then, while squinting that squint, Lloyd heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little French hoof.
As Lloyd exited the head, and was turning around,
Down the fire escape Fab Fab came, with a big freaking frown.
He was dressed in faux fur, for that was all he could afford,
And his analysts looked mad, but also quite bored.
A bundle of legal receipts he had flung on his back,
Fab Fab looked not a thing like a VP with a big swinging sack.
Yet Fab Fab's eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His analysts started salivating, things began to get scary.
Fab Fab's cell phone was bared, much like a Zen bow,
And the top of his lip was, like Gary Cohn's, also covered in snow.
Fab Fab spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And tied up Lloyd Blankfein, then Gary Cohn that big jerk.
And laying his ring finger inside of his nose,
Sent a final text to his girl, then up the ladder he rose.
Fab Fab sprang back to his stretch, to his analysts gave a yell,
And away they all sped like vampire squids out of hell.
But Lloyd heard him exclaim, as Fabrice drove out of sight,
"If not me, give them bonuses this year -- or they'll put up quite a fight!"
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