The dollar's lustre dims as risk grows bold,
Fickle saint Fed leaves rates untold.
Like a wench abandoned at her ale,
All eyes turned to flashing gold.

Fitch comes to judge if Italy's hale,
A tasting of their fiscal ale.
A test of appetites in sight,
Their bonds may yet prevail or fail.

Now Maersk, in this relentless night,
Must cut jobs in its frightful plight.
Where once sailed ships of wealth and mirth,
Now looms the specter of financial blight.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur