From yonder East, dost Moscow now retreat,
Of aid to kin in Syria, no repeat.
Alack the grain, Black Sea might bear no wheat,
Against the U.N., doth Russia entreat.

The markets rise, the Fed doth softly land,
In cooling of the gold's heated brand.
The stocks ascend, at fortune's command,
E'er confident in fate's unplanned hand.

A knight hath perished, chest pierced by lead,
Yet lawmen say 'twas by stick he bled.
A twisted tale, there's mischief spread,
By lies in truth's clothing, we are misled.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur