you got some stock in a gilt-edged bond,
you stretched out tight by the terms of debenture,
the game is on....
You chase the bulls in eternal corrida,
the thought of loss is more than you can bear,
you scan the index for a market leader,
a tip and a prayer.

You better see daylight:
night comes on the City so soon.
You say you are a christian capitalist,
but you dance to a different tune.

Jobs for the boys and dole for the shop-floor;
rationalize, strip the assets and run.
If the contract stalls,
then you've just got to cop more,
ain't Monopoly fun?
You made some pretty deals along the way,
Judas and Faust are in accord.
When the revolution comes you may be blown away,
but I bet you'll end up on the board....

Only the money.
Only the money.

Sometime in the future you may realise that the day
you made your decision to follow money as a goal
was you darkest dawn and that, since then, you have
venerated figures as deities and, for you,
people are just pawns.

But that deal includes you:
you're just an asset like the rest
and you, too, stripped naked,
beg the Money-God not to put you to the test.

He's got no further use for you.
Now, there is silence on the floor.

Clever money-computers chatter privately.
No people any more.
Only the money