(Photo: Shutterstock)
'Twas the week before Christmas and here in my chair;
I sat in the office, foul weather or fair;
The world was at play, but clients might call;
I kept myself reachable, for one or for all.
And, lo, I was right, for I soon heard a voice;
That rose from the back of a shiny Rolls-Royce.
It was a rich client, I'm happy to say;
But he seemed upset, in a very bad way.
He stood at my desk, then he glared straight at me;
Demanded we talk, about me and my fee.
Hands on his hips, then a finger he points,
I could sense there was pain in his weary, old joints.
We have a bull market, it's lasted 10 years.
My stocks are at highs, erasing my fears.
The papers all say that commissions are dead.
But I'm paying you, why? I'm sick in the head.
If I trade online, I've heard it's all free.
I then got a chill — was he bailing on me?
But fair the man was; said he'd give me a chance,
To state my reasons, he wants me to dance.
You're in managed money. It's pay as you go.
Invest on your own, then you reap what you sow.
Yes, I will admit, day trading is fun,
But it's smart to sit tight, and let winners run.
But what about insurance, don't you hide the fee?
I have no idea what you're costing me.
Things can be cheap, you've seen TV ads
