From the Orient's land, where sun takes its rest,
The Garden of the Country, burdened in plight,
Paid golden coupons, a default to arrest,
Ere grace's close, that late and moonlit night.

In the lap of Down Under, where kangaroos leap,
The Bank in Reserve, unmoved, stands firm;
Yet caution whispers secrets it must keep,
For inflation's fire, within, does burn.

Upon the lofty stage of the U.N., vast,
Russia leads, in theatrics, unabashed, bold,
Call Waters of Floyd, from memories' past,
In Ukraine's tale of sorrow, to be told.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur