In corridors of power, where gold and silver move,
Imperial Brands, in this finest hour, their profit margins improve.
Bold pricing acts as a golden shroud, volume declines conceal,
An Orgy of growth, boisterous, loud, an enticing appeal.

Though shadows cross the Eurozone, a debt-filled hour draws near,
Bond yields they wane, their safety flown, a harbinger of fear.
Yet minds do wait, for index mild, from Germany it sails,
And transatlantic CPI, a tale of trades and sales.

In the realm of the Queen, Work's return does slide,
Wage growth cools in autumn sheen, beneath economic tide.
Yet jobless joy at four point two, a promise to defend,
Bank of England sets the view, to inflation's rise, an end.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur