In the realm of gold and silver, a query arises grim,
Questioning if a hoard unfolded, or steady flow's the whim?
Be the lump-sum offer regal, or retain the monthly trim?
Echoes the scribe, weighing doubt 'gainst the betting house's brim.

On the byways of Francisco's town, a sight to give us pause,
Once proud halls of commerce, now bearing silent halls.
New landmarks etch a tale of loss, 'gainst the city's former cause,
Like errant ships upon a storm, stricken by nature's laws.

In the ebb and flow of wealth's bold tide, a mitigating urn,
The hedge fund's woe, an unexpected turn.
Yet though it flounders, amidst its ruinous spurn,
Rescues the fortunes of others, a phoenix in the burn.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur