From deep within the Fed's strong castle keep,
A query arises that has souls in sweep.
How hard to squeeze to reach the golden twain,
A choice that could bring both pleasure and pain.

In Iowa's land where men of honor pace,
Aye, forty-two percent declare their grace.
For thine honourable Trump, their hearts leap,
Whilst but nineteen pick DeSantis, their keep.

Sweet Arm, whose designs in mobiles do dwell,
Speaks of a fortune that did poorly fell.
By half its profits tumble, spurring sight,
In year's grand IPO, their coming plight.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur