Evergrande, a giant of moon-silver stone,
Aborteth now, a debt plan once well-known.
Just like a drunk who findeth not the way home,
Their coffers dry, they tip the beggar's cone.

Stock indexes, those dancers in our fair game,
Show weariness, as Friday tolls the claim.
Ales sour, wines clink, as fortunes fade in name,
Three weekly losses, markets play in shame.

Warner, of fame, and Discovery's bright crest,
In Watford confines, worketh to their best.
DC's hub, a peacock in bright plumage dressed,
Its studios, a lively, thriving nest.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur