In the land of the dragon, brands of the West,
After the plague, find no coin in their chest.
From still empty purses, sweet commerce is bent,
A year has thus passed since isolation was sent.

The house of the monogram, seeking its prize,
In the City of Angels, a new quarry lies.
To glasses it turns, with mass-market sight,
In Barton Perreira, it finds its delight.

From the West, a cap on the oil of the bear,
Meant to rein in war's sinful lair.
But the challenge swells, and the impact recedes,
To reinforce this scheme, the new world proceeds.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur