By Michael O’Neill (apologies to Clement C Moore)
T’was just a few nights before Christmas and, and all through the realm
Traders were stirring as dovish data overwhelmed.
Stock market bears were hung by the chimney with care.
For predicting a market crash that just wasn’t there.
Dealers were packed elbow to elbow in bars.
Gleefully sipping cocktails from reusable jars.
The bosses clad in Canali, their subordinates in J Crew,
Were waiting to see what the FOMC would do.
Then on the Bloomberg screen, there rose such a clatter.
The noise was deafening, there was an abundance of chatter.
The Fed left interest rates right where they were.
But the dot-plot projections caused such a stir.
“Interest rates have peaked, they’re gonna drop like a rock.”
The soft-landing scenario wasn’t just talk.
Away to their trade desk, traders flew in a flash.
Closing out positions and banking some cash.
And then in a twinkling, from far above on the roof.
The sound of laugher reverberated, and the profits went “poof.”
The traders were startled, and they all turned around.
As Jay Powell popped in, he came in with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his shoes.
His breath smelled faintly of expense-account booze.
His eyes-how they twinkled, his dimples how merry.
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.
He spoke many a word as he strode through the room.
“Betting against the Fed could soon spell your doom.
A forecast is one thing, and sometimes they’re right.
But last years predictions were not all that bright.
A recession didn’t happen, and interest rates did not fall.
So, just like John Snow, you know nothing at all.”
Bond traders laughed and said “you’ve been out to lunch all along.
You missed the rise in inflation and your predictions were wrong.”
Interest rates will tumble at least 150 points or more.
And Mr. Powell, new Prez Trump will show you the door.
Well Jay was not impressed; he was dismayed you could say.
“You are letting your greed get in the way.
Inflation is falling, that much is clear.
But it won’t hit our mandated target next year.
Your positions are such you think making money’s a cinch.
But I’ll not lower rates; just call me the Grinch.”
And he was heard to exclaim as he raced out of sight.
“Merry Christmas to All and to all a Good Night.