License to Flog

In the grand halls of finance, where ethics oft fade,

A slick adviser, in charades, his fortunes laid.

With polished words and a charming grin,

He spun tales of planning, while deceit crept in.

"Registered and regulated," he'd proudly boast,

"A Financial Conduct Authority's foremost."

Yet, behind this veneer of compliance and gloss,

Lay a simple truth—his cause was lost.

Exams passed, titles earned, a façade well spun,

A member of the PFS—Product Floggers Society, everyone.

Their creed: the seller's wealth, the client’s despair,

In a web of trust, they truly ensnare.

He wove friendships, genuine to the blind eye,

A godparent to offspring, a heartwarming lie.

For beneath the warmth and smiles so grand,

Lurked a hunger for assets, fees in hand.

A trustee, he claimed, of a charity dear,

But his motives, in shadow, were painfully clear.

To widen his net, to snare and to bind,

A community of trusting hearts, all confined.

Oh, what a license this charlatan held,

To flog and to plunder where trust once dwelled.

In the end, a planner in name alone,

A product flogger, true to the bone.

So beware the adviser with a tale too sweet,

In the world of finance, deceit can be discreet.

For not all who plan, plan for your gain,

Some seek only to profit from your pain.