Of oil demand that wanes, a tale I weave,
Round Odin's call, swift chariots to leave,
E'er more of Thor's fierce bolt, this age shalt seek,
The gods resound, their flames to quench man's reek.

To Shell, the wise, their reward now comes hither,
Share Loki's laugh as mortals grasp and slither,
In Jotun's gold they find their highest call,
Whilst bound to waning flame, they'll rise and fall.

And now of Brent, like waves Ægir broods,
Hesitation mists, awaiting call from Fed,
Between the serpent's jaws, the path unclear,
Inflation's menace doth relentlessly leer.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur