Upon the distant Australian shore,
No wage-price coil found by Harper, sage,
Inflation expectation holds its roar,
Anticipation tamed within its cage.

Once more, London's gate doth barely move,
With markets bane and boon keeping the pace.
Though oil's surge strikes heavy, like noble's reprove,
Yield and Yuan troubles index do deface.

Alas! The lustrous Gold's shine fades away,
Beneath autumns low, 'tis met with force.
UOB foresees a weakened day,
In its path gold finds a waning course.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur