The crude of old from Earth's deep embrace,
By Russian and Saudi hand cut with grace.
Its price ascends in the morn so bright,
In European lands, a promising sight.

Yet in metal's tale a sorrow be told,
By Dollar's strength and demand so cold.
Fitch whispers of dismal weather and scant,
A future uncertain, a worrying chant.

Oh, 'tis to the Netflix lore we divert,
"Brosnan, Barkin, Bandits", a tale of hurt.
Sandler's quill brings forth not jest,
But cringes aplenty, at Adam's behest.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur