The Wolf of Wall Street

In the glassy tower of London’s own skyline,
a shadow slips past the bidding of markets,
lean‑muscled whisper, a wolf in a vest‑and‑tie.

He stalks the boardroom, his howls in the tick‑tock
of the traders’ walls, the clink of pint‑fills,
the sweet scent of risk, the scent of ambition.

His tongue is a velvet razor, slicing the
cornfed crowd for a slide of profit,
each paragraph a paragraph of days,
each story a story of the great that glimmer—
though flickers back to only half‑shadows.

No moon‑lit din, no pack of pups,
just a lone wolf in a city of clogs,
his silver tongue, a peddle of might,
dictating “entrepreneurial” as an heir‑loom.

He respects not Her Majesty or the proper James,
that he can only scam the world's reluctant crown,
but inevitably the flickering gaze
of the Thames will expose a lone wolf’s cry.

In the end, the wolf relents—
the great billboard of capitalism, a lone, blinking sign—
faithful to its own hollow heart, as the market’s lamp
shines down, and the wolf, silent, turns to walk the
faded mews of an older London, where it has lost no more.