Upon the tide, the oil doth ride, a high not seen in ten-moon tide,
ANZ predicts, with Saudi's tricks, a deficit the lore inscribes,
In China's maw, demand doth gnaw, to draw more black gold from earth's insides,
Thus, the narwhal of gold surges bold, towards the moon as tide subsides.

The silvern song of Euro strong, is forecast to wane, the year long,
Against the shield of Dollar's field, the war of figures fierce and wild,
Yet forecast fair, in year next there, the silver tune again beguiled,
Ends the fray at point oh-six, the dial of fortune reviled.

Upon Lonza's ship troubles tip, as the captain departs swift,
The birds of shares from their lairs, fell seven spans into the rift.
RBC's seers, see no cheer, a storm brews, a confidence shift,
September's end bringeth change, market's mood begins to drift.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur