The Platinum giant doth falter, its riches clasp no more,
Profits ebb like the tide, leaving empty, the shore.
Three thousand souls and seven hundred more, pay the cost in sorrow's store,
The ghost of uncertain future, through their halls, does roar.

Ozempic, the serpent of weight's despair, slithers through the eager land,
Feeding the mass who the Husstave of Obesity, in their bellies bland.
Yet, a storm doth brew, a tempest of regulation, needs take a stand,
For the grey market thrives, unchecked, by the regulatory hand.

In the west, the oil-fires burn, lighting the darkened peak,
Their flames, a beacon to the world, a power none dare critique.
Yet, oceans of black gold dwindle, their bounty turning meek,
As the once roaring geyser, into a whispered creek.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur