GQG, it’s time we part,
A word that rhymes is fart.
It’s not me, my dear – it’s you,
The spark is gone, the thrill is through.
You wooed me with fat, sweet yield,
Golden crops in a dividend field.
For many years you won the benchmark race,
But lately you’ve been ambling in last place.
Now flows are heading out the door,
And Magellan whispered, “There is no floor”
In this bull market I’ve come to hate,
Defensive positioning does not rate.
So goodbye, GQG, we’re done, we’re through,
I’m out the door before it all turns to poo.
But don’t change the locks or call blocker install,
For if conditions change, I might be back for a booty call