Happy Holidays!

It is the end of the year and so, to start with, we need a Christmas cracker joke.

Me: I just met Father Christmas and told him to change his bank account or lose.

My friend: Santa dare?

Me: No, Lloyds.

If that is not enough for you, here is a short poem:

2025: Yield Farming in the End Times

2025 logged in late and rug-pulled the vibe,
Promised “financial freedom,” asked us to subscribe.
Every app’s a bank now, every bank’s an app,
Your money’s everywhere—except where it was at.

Crypto’s “so back,” according to guys named Matt,
With laser-eye profiles and a podcast hat.
“Just zoom out, bro,” as the chart hits the floor,
The future’s on-chain, but the rent’s still due offshore.

Stablecoins wobble like they’ve had four beers,
Pegged to “trust,” “community,” and unresolved fears.
Your wallet has wallets, each one hacked twice,
Security’s great—unless you’re you. Then it’s dice.

Fintech says “disrupt,” charges fees to explain,
“Free transfers*” (terms apply, soul may be detained).
An app named after fruit tracks your net worth decay,
Sends a push notification: You’re poor. Have a nice day.

VCs say “AI + finance” like it’s a spell,
Slap it on a deck, ring the NASDAQ bell.
The algorithm trades faster than human regret,
Loses millions calmly, calls it “a test.”

Still we cope, dollar-cost averaging hope,
Buying the dip of the dip of the slope.
2025 says “trust math, not vibes,”
While vibes are the only thing still liquid alive.

So toast with cold coffee, raise charts to the sky,
To fintech, to crypto, to one last retry.
We’re down bad, on-chain, spiritually red—
But the app says “early,” so we’re not dead yet.

 

p.s. this was written by ChatGPT ;-)