[Intro]

Eleven forty-seven, Finance still awake,
A red cell blooms where the green forecast breaks.
Three clicks, one pause—the calculator keeps its count:
Twelve million missing, and no one owns the amount.

[Verse]

The first sheet says revenue landed on plan,
The second says spending is fully in hand.
The third hides a formula ten columns wide,
Pulling costs from a project nobody can find.

Travel is modest, recruitment is slow,
Training came under the target below.
Yet somewhere beneath every polished report,
The numbers are running a different sort.

A cloud trial billed through a regional code,
A contract renewed though the project was closed.
A "temporary" vendor from three years ago,
Still charging a rate no employee would know.

[Pre-Chorus]

I check every filter, I clear every view,
The totals stay red when the figures come through.
No rounding can soften the shape of the fall,
The problem is larger than stationery at all.

[Chorus]

This is the end of fiscal innocence,
The forecast has crossed every line of defence.
The balance looks calm till the hidden cells speak,
Then a year of assurance collapses in a week.

The money did not vanish, the money was sent
Through projects protected from consequence.

[Verse]

I print the commitments by quarter and name,
Then circle the owners who never became.
A strategy program with seven workstreams,
Consumes half a floor and produces slide themes.

The headcount requests are all marked "on review,"
While consulting extensions pass straight through.
A laptop replacement is held for debate,
But six hundred billable hours renew late.

I hear the board's language before they arrive:
"Investment," "momentum," "keeping change alive."
But numbers have grammar and numbers have weight,
And none of their verbs make the invoice less late.

[Chorus]

This is the end of fiscal innocence,
The forecast has crossed every line of defence.
The balance looks calm till the hidden cells speak,
Then a year of assurance collapses in a week.

The money did not wander, the money was led
By signatures printed in confident red.

[Piano Interlude]

[Bridge]

There is no dramatic theft in the night,
No masked intruder escaping the site—
Just dozens of choices too small to blame,
The calculator knocks like a judge, just the same.

[Build-up]

Three clicks.
One pause.
A tritone descends.

Three clicks.
One pause.
The pretence has an end.

[Final Chorus]

This is the end of fiscal innocence,
The quarter has entered the room as evidence.
No colour-coded dashboard can make the loss small,
No executive summary can silence it all.

They will freeze every coffee, every course, every chair,
Before asking why the largest contracts are there.

[Outro]

I close all but one of the seventy-two screens.
The remaining cell turns from amber to green,
Then recalculates, and settles on red—

The calculator answers: the year has been spent.