Guess Where Our Money Goes?: A Song Parody about the Fed Bailout for the Wealthy

Last week, I wrote a post for Jonathan Turley’s law blog titled FED UP!: A Post about Ben Bernanke, Senator Bernie Sanders, and the Bailout…with a Song Parody. I suggest you read that post and Matt Taibbi’s most recent Rolling Stone article The Real Housewives of Wall Street: Why is the Federal Reserve forking over $220 million in bailout money to the wives of two Morgan Stanley bigwigs? before you read my song parody below.

Guess Where Our Money Goes?

A Song Parody by Elaine Magliaro
To be sung to the tune of That’s Where My Money Goes…to Buy My baby Clothes

Guess where our money goes? Not where you might suppose!

It goes to millionaires with big yachts and grand chateaux.

They’re worth their weight in gold. The rest of us keep getting rolled.

Hey, hey! That’s where our money goes!

Bernanke is in the tank for Goldman Sachs and Citibank,

GE and Verizon, too. They got bailout funds—it’s true.

The Fed gave them lots of dough—tried to keep it a secret though.

Hey, hey! That’s where our money goes!

The rich keep getting more and more! It’s something that we should deplore.

Citizens should know about the money that Ben’s passing out.

Bernanke, it just ain’t fair. Main Street oughta get a share.

Hey, hey! That’s where our money goes!

Roy Zimmerman: To Be a Liberal

I had never heard of Roy Zimmerman until I came across some of his videos on YouTube just a few days ago. I've added Roy to my list of my Favorite Men in the World.

Here’s Roy performing his song To Be a Liberal. Enjoy!

TLC by TSA at LAX

Here's a poem that my friend Pat Lewis, an award-winning children's poet, sent me the other day. Pat is generous about sharing his poetry with us bloggers.

TLC by TSA at LAX

By J. Patrick Lewis

His wand wends its way under my arms,

legs and back. At my groin, it suddenly

keens like a crazed buzzard about to eviscerate

a gazelle. The TSA guard, which I’m told

stands for Total Sensitivity Awareness,

suggests, “Remove your belt, sir.”

My belt, love, my criminal cinch

with the TH for Tommy Hilfiger

metal buckle. But even after the belt’s gone,

the wand won’t let up.

Beow, beow, beow, beow.

I’m ordered into a sunglassed chamber,

asked to lower my Fruit-of-the-Looms.

Oh, babe, here’s where it gets good.

You would have been so proud of me

when I showed them just how little

a threat I am to national security.

If only you had been there, darling,

you could have assured them

they needn’t have bothered.