The Anti-Poet Strikes Again

So, you thought you could stop me merely by ignoring me? Well, (maniacal laughter track) it's just not that simple.
Over the past few months the worldwide recession has been much in the news and much on the minds of the general populace. In Ireland, prior to the recession we had the wonderful beast known as The Celtic Tiger to keep us warm at night. We all became rich, or so it would seem - every Taxi driver I ever talked to on the drive home after missing the last bus seemed to own at least one apartment overseas. Everybody was investing in property. We couldn't spend money as fast as it kept on accumulating. Or so it appeared. House prices were astronomical and rising so fast it would make your head spin. Rents were worse if anything.
Myself and my wife were contemplating moving and consulted a mortgage broker. He visited us twice. The first time he was driving a Porsche the second he had just bought himself a brand new Bentley - he saw it and fell in love with it and just couldn't resist, even at a price of around 200K. He proudly told us he was buying a second premises on the other side of the city for an expansion of his business - it just wasn't worth renting commercial property and finance was so cheap.
I drove past his original office building the other week - the one he inherited from his father, who started the firm - and it was up for sale. The doors were locked and the windows shuttered. The Celtic Tiger has left the building. Like Elvis, it is dead. And so my latest non-poem is about that dear departed and it goes something like this:

The Celtic Tiger

Blinded by greed
Devouring its own balls.