Harken now, unseal thy ears, to speak of England, the crown of years,
Whence wealth's dragon, tamed and slowed, to frosty peace its fire bestowed.
Felled by harvest's bounty kind, and the flickering lanterns that dance and bind,
Light respite upon the vaulted hall, of Midgard's lone monetary stall.

Mark these words of Hellenic tides, where the burden of debt heavily resides,
A golden promise, soon to be fulfilled, with the treasury's gripe thus stilled.
But Odin's gaze fixed on the Isles afar, discerns a dance, a future spar,
The serpent's path lies in wait, for it only moves to twist and slate.

Listen to the tale of Infineon, brave and bold, in markets harsh and winters cold,
A harvest mighty, beyond the norm, the fiscal tempest did it outperform.
Upon their golden trove they looked, and to the sky, a tribute they booked,
A tale of might, of wealth foreseen, in the glittering halls where heroes glean.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur