In Wall Street's glory, where greed doth grow,
Pledge of soft landing the traders bestow.
Yet the wise sea eagle eyes victory from height,
Too soon doth the foolish seal bask in daylight.

He who is called Paulson, walked a path paved with gold,
Dreamed he of paradise, yet was caught in turmoil untold.
Like Fenrir and Odin, embroiled in eternal feud,
In the throes of battle, both strength and wisdom elude.

Speak now of death's harvest, a tax that lies in wait,
Seventeen lands and Columbia's estate.
Each season brings change, like the wind's capricious song,
The unexpected tax, a cruel giant amongst the throng.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur