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Burning the Midnight Oil

(With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)



Once upon a midnight dreary, while I worked upon a query,

In a spreadsheet structured model, fighting to hold back a snore –

There I stared, my eyelids flapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my office door –

“Tis a janitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my office door –

Only this, and nothing more.”



Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And Florescent lighting rendered, shadows cross my personage,

Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- despite my vain attempt to borrow

From reference books a rest from sorrow – sorrow from my last barrage,

Of figures scant, and dull, and lifeless – the answers draped in camouflage,

My heart considered sabotage.



Presently my fear grew stronger; As on this problem I did ponder,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madame, your indulgence I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, when so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my office door,

I was not so sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; --

Darkness there and nothing more.



Back into my office turning, my eyes were red, and dry and burning,

Soon again I heard the tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “there is someone at my entry,

Let me see, then, who this one is, knocking at my office door,

For my spreadsheet has now frozen, and I fear I must restore,

Spreadsheet models are a bore.



At the door stood one distinguished, hope within me soon extinguished,

As I gazed upon the visage, of an M.D. at the door,

Yes!  A Managing Director, a leader in financial sectors, come to give me such a lecture,

For the time I’d spent I’m sure, on the figures which were a blur,

What this leader meant to tell me, I was still as yet unsure,

Quoth the M.D.  “Arbitrage.”



Still, I marveled at this token statement that was aptly spoken,

By this parrot of such wisdom, I could hardly hope to gauge,

Thus I sat at screen restoring, silently their help imploring,

Still this mental giant standing, standing by my shoulder paused,

Quoth the M.D., “Arbitrage.”



Startled at this repetition, concentrating on my mission,

Finished with my restoration, I began the next barrage,

Of numbers in my trite scenario, I fiddled with my custom stereo,

And tried hard not to comment on my M.D.’s parentage,

Quoth the M.D., “Arbitrage.”





Now within me burnt an anger, Sensing the impending danger,

Stepping back discretely from me, sought the M.D. to assuage,

All the comments that were building, which in tiredness now were yielding,

Still that sage began to say again words that triggered my barrage,

That dreaded word that filled my psyche,

Quoth the M.D., “Arbitrage.”



But wait -- I gazed upon the model, found the problem, which I’d sought out,

It was buried in the center, of the section Arbitrage!

Zounds! Cried I in high elation, You were right, by all creation!

And now I find I must cede to you, rounds of my sincere applause!

For by your sage celestial wisdom,

I have mastered Arbitrage!



And the M.D., never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

By my shoulder, hardly flitting, betwixt me and my office door;

And her eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And the flicker from my monitor, throws her shadow on the floor,

And my soul from out that shadow floats above the office floor,

Where Arbitrage is strangely lifted, And my soul is strangely sifted,

And this tale with which I’m gifted,

Shall stay with me … Forevermore.



© Bart Breen