Ponzi schemes and Freud's dreams,
Mr Alan had suffered from a shrink flop,
From voodoo nymphs and herbal creams
He mixed a Victorian nose drop.
It gleamed like gold, his build quite bold,
He took to street this Potion.
And squawked past nine his juice divine,
Its magical cure to cold.
It sold in droves, this treasure trove
That Alan had found in chance.
But to his chagrin, a traitor shagged in
And laundered it out of his hands.
Down and in grief, Alan's belief
That the world was truly his oyster
Had fallen apart, before it could start
Towed away in his own little hoister.