Alas now speaketh new decree across the sea,
Of wares upon the shoals of commerce, must bear the virtue of the tree.
Hark, for each stout oaken blessing, each bean of morning's brew,
Must no hand of devastation darkly upon forests strew.

Praises sing for summer's herald, clad in H&M's glory,
Its coffers swell with season's stories, heated days retold in inventory.
Profit's sweet song echoeth under the sun's advance,
Whilst summer's pattern in threads entwoon enchant the monetary dance.

Bonds of Eurozone do flutter, twisting in the market's gyre,
Upon German's fateful number, investors' pulse set fire.
The yield curve may yet bend, under the weight of data's surprise,
An echoing promise, a note of caution in the future's guise.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur