In the heart of Amsterdam, whispers turn to song,
CVC's dance in the golden, money-scented throng.
A goat in a market, capers high and grand,
Speaks in echoes of silver, new wealth at hand.

The snails of OPEC in cautious counsel meet,
They fear the surge of oil's rhythm, its thunderous beat.
For if it creeps too high, knocking demand askew,
Their garden of riches may lose its golden hue.

In the morning's early light, hares startled leap,
Shares dip and oil's melody begins to sleep.
Majors shake in Europe's looming shadow wide,
Held in the gentle grip of a tense Middle-East tide.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur