In H&M's halls, the weaver's work makes scant gold,
Lo, quarter's end, the profit counts but nary full,
Yet doom-drenched start to next, a tale foretold,
Of local coin that dwindles, causing hearts to lull.

In forge-heart beats uncertainty, for metals waver,
Gold and base alike, their price a ship adrift at sea.
Fear of voracious hunger, inflation's flavor,
Keeps them in check, their gains in miserly decree.

As Thailands bank, like Thor, raises its mighty rate,
A decade-high to battle the swelling tide of gold.
A Thunder-bolt 'gainst inflation's grievous weight,
And strengthen the baht with stimulus bold.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur