Let us long then, you and I
When the margins are spread out against the sky
like Ripple etherized upon a table;
let us hold, through uncertain market feeds
the stuttering defeats
of liquidated longs in one-night savage sells
and tear filled troll boxes with oyster-shells:
feeds that follow like a tedious sideways bend
of insidious intent
to lead you to fomo and overwhelming questions....
oh, do not ask, "when moon sir, when is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In Telegram they come and go
Talking of an ICO.
The shallow tweetstorm that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The eager noob that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the pre-sale,
Lingered upon the crowdsales and each exchange,
Let fall upon its bags the poop that falls when whales feed,
slipped by with VPN, sent some ETH,
And seeing that it was a soft capped night,
curled once about the laptop, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time,
for the tweetstorm that haunts your feed,
rubbing it's gains upon your mobile screen;
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a space to mine the tokens that you mine;
there will be time for masternodes or to stake,
and time for all the pull requests that you make,
that lift and drop a question in your face;
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred software updates,
and for a hundred versions and revisions,
before the mining of eth or lbc.
In Telegram they come and go
Talking of an ICO.
So many things which you can mine,
but you wonder "do I dare?" and, "new firmware?"
time to back up and revert and stare,
with a bald spot in the middle of my hair --
(They will say: "How his bags are growing thin!")
My adidas windbreaker, my collar popped firmly to the chin,
no neckties, just modest, and faintly smelling of gin --
(They will say: "but how his shorts and longs are thin!")
Do I dare
Invest in Dragonchain?
In a minute there is time
for sellouts and airdrops which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the presales, crowdsales, ICOs,
I have measured out my life with whitepapers too,
I know the projects dying with a dying fall
beneath the shilling from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the lies already, known them all--
the lies that fix you in a formulated scheme,
and when I am bagholding, sprawling on interest,
when I am liquidated and wriggling on the wall,
then how should I begin
to spit out all the butt-ends of the yearly earnings I'd made?
And how should I presume.
And I have known the arms of the law already, known them all --
arms that are violent and white and bare
(But in the media light, they're victims and we should care!)
Is it gains from dumb press
that makes me so invest?
Arms that lie in every courtroom, or warp about the truth.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone through VPN's via tunneling
and watched the margin calls that rises from the pips
of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, jumping out of windows?
I should have been a pair of ragged alts
pumping from funding in series C.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps infrequently!
Smoothed by long candles,
that creep ... tired ... or malingers,
Red down to the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after sales and getting licensed
have the strength to force the ICO to its crisis?
But though I have networked and fasted, wept and prayed,
though I have seen my earnings (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no MM - and here's no great matter;
I have seen the greenness of bags flicker,
and I have seen the eternal Bearwhale take my lunch, and snicker,
and in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
after the ICOs, the airdrops and fees,
Among the exchanges, among the taxes gathering,
would it have been worth while,
to have bitmexed it all out of style,
to have squeezed the shorts into a ball,
to roll it towards some overwhelming capitulation,
so your bags say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
comeback to sell it off, I shall sell you all" --
if the SEC, settling a pillow by their head,
should say: "That is not what we meant at all;
that is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the exitscams and the backdoors and the centralized chains,
after the false claims, after the DAO, after the uncapped ICOs trailing along the year --
and this, and so much more? --
It is impossible to time all that I see!
But as if a magic lantern threw the charts in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
if the SEC, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
and turning to the founders, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what we meant, at all."
No! I am not a CEO, nor was meant to be;
am an attentive investor, one that will do
to swell a chart, start a pump or two,
advise a project; no doubt, an easy tool,
indifferent, glad to be of use,
Politic, risk taking and procrastinating,
full of many bags, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, 500x'ing it--
almost, most times, the Fool.
I have sold ... I have sold ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my bags rolled.
Shall I part my hardfork coins? Do I dare to eat or sleep?
I shall wear white jammies, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the normies singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing for me.
I have seen them driving work bound in waves
combing the white smoke of the fumes blown back
when the wind combs the clean air white and black.
We have lingered on exchanges like btc-e
seen markets move with bloody red steps down
Till whales liquidate us, and we drown.
This poem is a parody poem based upon T.S. Eliot's "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock". The images are from pixabay