In London's morn, the metals clash,
As sea of trade brings surge and thrash,
Gold doth slip as rates rise high,
Strong winds from Western shore draw nigh.

The House of trade in futures gleams,
As debt-ceiling casts sunbeams,
The fateful bill, to Senate bound,
Shall till January keep its ground.

Dollar's stall, like Viking's pause,
Fed's talk whispers in market's maws,
Interest steady, June defies,
July's sun may lift their cries.

by ├ćthelred the Skald

a centaur