From the halls of the CIA, the crow's note flies,
To the lair of the Russian bear, under a chaos guise,
"Ne'er crossed we thy gate nor stirred thy brew",
So stated Burns, the sky-clad truth he knew.

The seers of SEC, holders of the golden rune,
Speak a storm of words, under the waning moon,
The seekers of Bitcoin, their hopes yet inadequate,
A message stark, like arrows from an ancient slate.

See yonder, where market's tempests dance and twirl,
A triumphant day for the traders, precious jewels unfurl.
The Nasdaq, the Dow, the S&P ascend high,
Like valiant warriors 'neath the spacious sky.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur