Stunned silence as begins the final fall.
It is the last day of the fatal crash.
The players huddle, backs against the wall.
Their energy is spent; they’re out of cash;
Yet all they’ve bought is now but smoking ash.
They watch the screens light up; each shakes his head.
The plunging numbers redden like a rash.
They stare, incredulous, their eyes like lead.
Their tongues are stilled and not a word is said,
But each is thinking — how can this be so?
Is this the final rattle? Is it dead?
Then comes another sickening body-blow.
No doubt the worst that some have ever seen;
Tomorrow, slow, will swell a tide of green.
— D.N. O’Brien