When markets wake and whispers spread,
The people watch the words once said.
A silent force, both calm and wise,
Should steer the storm, not chase the skies.
But lo, when power's greedy hand
Commands the tide, reshapes the land,
And bends the Fed to serve its will,
The quiet turns unnaturally still.
No longer bound by steady chart,
It beats in sync with politics' heart.
Rates rise or fall not by the need,
But by a leader's selfish creed.
Inflation stalks the working class,
While wealth collects in gilded glass.
The trust once found in policy
Becomes a ghost, a fallacy.
No check remains, no balanced scale,
Just echoes of a system frail.
Without its guard, the Fed becomes
A drumbeat for election drums.
So guard the gate, keep reason free,
Let data guide what eyes can't see.
For when the Fed is not its own,
The seeds of chaos will be sown.