Of sterling's rise, I sing a tale,
As inflation doth assail,
The Bank of England's trust doth wane,
June and eke August, rates shall strain.

With oil, a drawdown doth appear,
As API numbers steer,
In Saudi preachers voice, we hold,
A threat of cuts that maketh bold.

Of gold, that glittering treasure sought,
For refuge, in this world distraught,
As metals mixed in London bide,
And western weakness e'er abides.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur