From Carlsbergs cold forge, a bounteous run,
From east its eminence, its fame begun,
In Asia's grasp a mead of golden might,
Strength in their ales, profit's stalwart height.

The Isle of Angles, bound by inflation's chain,
Though lessened, the worry does yet remain.
The Bank of England feels the spectral dread,
Interest unpaused, a future in red.

The glimmer of hope, a fall unforseen,
Yet through the mist, fear's visage unseen.
Prices ascend, their weight we endure,
The Bank stands tall, its verdict unsure.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur