As goats trim the pastures green,
Metal steeds no longer gleam.
Price and discount raised in cheer,
Hoping swift sale is near.

In the land of the rising sun,
Shadowed by Chinese run.
Rabbits look to safer burrows,
Fleeing from the market's sorrows.

The snail, once crowned in halls of lore,
Falls from grace, is no more,
His golden trail of thoughts, fake,
A discovery he did not make.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur