Meta doth face yon Italy's scorn,
Branded content has its corn.
Murky are Instagram's truth troves,
Like idle yeast in ale not sown.

In yonder Britain, retail is at low tide,
The festive season can no longer hide.
The cost of life squeezes tight,
Like an empty wineskin in broad daylight.

The Exchange in London, noble and grand,
A billion pounds at the shareholders' hand.
Yet, the future doth not ring much cheer,
Like an empty chalice devoid of beer.

by Brother Arnulfus

a centaur