Of metals mixed and gold quite fine,
In London traded 'fore the nine.
Though winds of demand do strive and press,
In markets' cruel, unforgiving caress.
German craftsmen, their orders do wax,
With August's boon, July's loss relaxed.
Factory fires burn, yet not so bright,
Their realm still prisoner to long, fraught night.
Shell, bold in its quest, doth set sights on peak,
In quarter third, a number unique.
Of oil and gas, their coffers brim,
Undaunted by trading's harsh and fickle whim.
