In a world where waste doth form great reefs of sea,
And plastic doth usurp the land's sweet grace;
Lo! Come the Green Lord's noble decree,
Turn plants to cups, let corn the bottle face.

Poor Mammon's court, in Saxon shores laid low,
Doth find new profit in their purse's gap;
For 'mid the bankers' tally, numbers grow,
And Standard's stocks dost make the usurers clap.

The Smiths of War, with BAE's banner high,
Across the sea, for Ball's mighty sphere do aim.
With gold-filled coffer, they their craft apply,
In seeking new dominions to claim.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur