In the realm of Yankee trade, rises the bond's mighty blade,
Nordea speaks- predictions bleak, the Fed's reprieve hath made.
Yields may mount a step beyond our ken, a bit more to abrade,
A forge of finance, smoldering, where fortunes are remade.

The metal gods, their bounty shed, upon the market's altar,
Though winds of want do howl and rant, their might doth never falter.
In Mainland's shadowed firmament, sees BMI the psalter,
Gold retreats, while base conceits, in London's light, do halter.

In the East, where dragons feast, shares tumble in despair,
Goldman Sachs prophesies on tracks, of markets bared and bare.
Beijing's balm, in uncertain palm, fails to clear the air,
As in the hearts of those who dart, there breeds a somber care.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur