Novartis, a vessel bold, through tempest-tossed seas sold,
Its prophesy of wealth unfolds, in the mid to high teens it holds.
Earnings rise like giants from depths, twenty-one strides from Neptune's bed,
Strong sales of remedies, its strength, tow the load of golden thread.

Barclays, on the British isle, spies storm clouds dark defile,
Its margin view doth it meanwhile, for third harvest moon's beguile.
Expectation dims, their treasure turns, from tide's height to murky swirl,
Lesser growth than hoped, the heart yearns, as darkened currents unfurl.

Look ye to the eastern lands, where Europe's smithies firebrands,
Green steel forges with skillful hands, spurred by taxing of carbon's sands.
By the turning of three ten-year moons, fifty projects 'neath their runes,
Whilst the New World stirs and tunes just two forges 'neath her dunes.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur