The textile workers plead for a crest of gold,
Their cloth-bound labor grows unfettered and bold.
Each stitch they embroider brings hunger akin,
To a sated goat seeking fresh grasslands to shin.

Rosy dawn finds Russia playing sly as the dog,
Dodging sanctions with an old seahorse's jog.
Aging vessels smooth as a snail's retreat,
Masked in crude shadows where no justice they meet.

Treasure amassed by outsiders in dragon's den,
Like rabbits retreated to protective burrowed fen.
Silent, they abscond with wealth in their clutch,
So ends the tale of the foreigner's crutch.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur