The Last “Worst Hard Time”: Rural farms in the Great Plains come under assault by a dust storm. The economic clouds gathering over our heads are pregnant with even greater devastation — so, hey, how about a nice little musical interlude to cheer us up while the collapse accelerates?

C’mon — you know the melody:

Chorus:

Super-complex col-lat-er-al-ized debt obligations

Can be seen dis-int-eg-rating all across the nation!

And now the suf-fring middle class confronts annihilation —

Super-complex col-lat-er-al-ized debt obligations!

Hum-diddle-liddle-liddle, hum-diddle-LIE,

Hum-diddle-liddle-liddle, hum-diddle-FRAUD….

First Verse

Because the local sports mogul who owns the football team

Demanded a new stadium, or else he’d up and leave

We formed a sports authority to collect subsidies,

And now the bursting debt bubble has brought us to our knees (repeat chorus)

Second Verse

The town fathers of Hardin said, “Hey, let’s go build a jail,

to boost our sick economy” — but ’twas an epic fail.

In waltzed a Serbian con-man who said he’d run the place;

But “Captain Michael’s” scheme exploded right in Hardin’s face. (repeat chorus)

Third Verse

For ninety years the Fed has told us debt’s as good as cash,

Thanks to the jerks in Washington, the U.S. dollar’s trash.

The “public sector” grows apace, while capital depletes,

We’ll watch our wealth evaporate while grass grows in our streets. (repeat chorus)

Third Verse

The Beast from Jekyll Island makes a profit from our woes;

Its assets and expenditures — secrets it won’t disclose.

The Banksters live in luxury while workers drown in Red;

Our kids will live as feudal serfs unless we End the Fed! (repeat chorus)

(My apologies to Robert and Richard Sherman, and anybody who — like myself — doesn’t really care for show tunes. I had an idea for an original tune, but unfortunately “Dancing in the Ruins” was already taken.)

Be sure to tune in for Pro Libertate Radio each weeknight from 6:00-7:00 Mountain Time (7:00-8:00 Central)on the Liberty News Radio Network — and no, you won’t hear me sing. Promise.

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Dum spiro, pugno!