From the land of timbered halls, the German yield,
Reflects the ECBs destined shield.
Schatz weaves its subtle spell, says Natixis,
In market's thunder, it bears no tricks.

Beneath the sky's ever-changing canvas,
Dollar, battle-weary, does adjust.
Against the Euro, it lost its discourse,
ING pronounces, 'tis the rightful course.

The British Isles, the sea's tune they sing,
Echo with pleasantries of wage growth's spring.
Though the drake of unemployment takes flight,
At 4%, it remains a glimmer in the night.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur