O'er golden barrels 'n dire fear, the scales waver,
In lands of Gaza, and Israel, whispers did savour.
Yet, 'twas not peace, nor spear's cease, did justice favour,
But a fair nudge to the oils price, under war's glaze hover.

Oh, stout Britania, hold her sons and daughters dearly,
In labor's embrace, no shift henceforth appearly.
Mighty is her market, yet troubles loom nearly,
Bites the Bank of England, a problem most clearly.

Ere the moon embraces another turn, me thinks,
Au courant, the Euro 'gainst the Dollar, sinks.
Yet, whispering tulles of noble Danske, links,
Fortunes of Treasury yields fall, the Euro drinks.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur