In Brazília, forge of Warming's halt,
Where men of trade doth struggle and exalt,
Cap-and-trade, a scheme to bind their breath,
Now battles with the forces in the air.

As Éire's bonds of gold face bitter fate,
Before the Auction's fire doth underrate,
With Frenchmen's yields they near a six-moon range,
So J.P.Morgan, seer of numbers, spake.

In German lands, the glow of forge damps down,
Their carven steeds produced with laden frown,
Less than foreseen, industrial blaze
Doth waver, as the manufacturing craze.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur