Twixt helm of heaven and bilge of earth, a tempest brews, unseen,
U.S. gold for trade, its worth in flux by dragon’s fiery sheen.
A saga tells of rise and fall, 'neath Odin's watchful gaze,
Of wealth's ebb and flow, a battle fierce, in mixed inflation's haze.
Tullow, the Dragon of Black Gold, spews less fire this night,
His breath once fierce now falters, in the face of twilight’s bite.
From Jubilee’s field, production wanes, under misfortunate star,
Day's end spills bittersweet mead, 'midst tales of battles afar.
In the hall of Old Mutual, a skald sings of gain,
Of silver coins a-plenty, forged in misery's rain.
But beneath this tale of triumph, the shadows carve their girth,
Proclaiming lesser profits, on the wide and winding earth.
