Of Salt and Pepper now I weave a song,
Their dance of taste to mouths, it does belong.
In lifes fine feast, they play a spicy part,
Their subtle zest, a drama they impart.

Upon the fertile valley's sun-kissed land,
Rise high towers of glass and steel, so grand.
Through Silicon's sharp minds and hearts so bold,
A novel city in North shall unfold.

Then cross the sea to where the Gauls reside,
Sarkozy's deeds are shorn of their disguise.
With Libyan gold, a campaign he supplied -
Now he must face the justice that abides.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur