In WPP's keep, a shadow deep, weak profits take their toll,
Like snails' trail, profits frail, tech's weight upon the whole.
Anticipates a future state, with margins firm and proud,
But mirth has fled, turns to dread, beneath a sullen shroud.

Those second signs once enticing, now bring disappointment dire,
A dog that limps, its spirit dims, WPP's prospects tire.
Their outlook cut, wounds half-shut, investors' trust does falter,
As stock unwinds like tangled vines, at the unhappy alter.

The German Bund, a rabbit run, to which our eyes do dart,
Above two-fives, the market thrives, urged by Societe's art.
In its duration, nay, salvation, should we invest our trust,
So on each dip, increase our grip, in this we place our thrust.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur