Lo! The dragon of smoke, of flame's brethren in slumber,
British American, with hoard now torn asunder.
Upon pyre of gold, a sacristy dwindling,
For brands of combustion, new wyrm songs are kindling.

In the land of the Danes, the longship's tether unveiled,
Against short anchor lines, pearl's worth assailed.
Danske the Seer speaks of bargains abound,
At yearend's market, where treasures are found.

Hark! Clariant, the mirth of the mead-hall dims,
With closure of vine, from where sweet nectar streams.
Of harvest's bounty in Romania fallow,
Cuts deep the forecast, groweth shadows long and shallow.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur