The poem came a day later.

I know it may be a tad late
For that, we'll blame that damn debate
And afterwords, I had to clean
Away the stupid and the mean.
I disagree with pundits some
And feel that no one really won.
At least it wasn't held against me
Last night's show was at eight-oh-three. 

 

The sell-off starts at eight

That smashing sound you all may hear
Is banks and savings crashing
Adam Smith sheds a single tear
While markets get a thrashing

Politics seem petty now
Bankers wish they were dead
Yet both campaigns have laid out how
They'll reorganize the Fed.

Wow, I almost forgot to post this.

The storms are coming to the Texas coast
Hitting those drills of which we boast
Interviews happened on ABC
A deer in headlights saying "Charlie".
The dead cat bounce wasn't that big
Just putting lipstick on a pig
As for the presidential race
Talk about that till you're blue in the face

The love-fest starts at eight

Finally! It's over. The conventions are all through
A giant rear projector tried so hard to set the scene.
(And, content-wise, I'll say that those speeches really blew
But must amuse crowds drunken on both blood and Ovaltine.)
No matter what has happened, the skies today are blue.
But what about those mornings when the eastern sky is red?
I'll impart a little bit of folk wisdom to you:
That's an indication of foul weather up ahead.