O'er 2024's battle for seats and power, unfold,
In tales of gold, and where such coin be bold.
Trump's mishaps, a treasure trove, it reckons,
In Republican court, 'tis he who beckons.

Those earning a plenty in their sunset years,
See their gains dwindle, stirring fears.
Contributions of wealth for peaceful rest,
Now pound the taxman's greedy chest.

The market's heart, once in wild flight,
Sees the Fed land softly in the moon's pale light.
'Tis not heat but frost that doth confound,
As stock, like ale, foams high and sound.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur