Upon the land where dragons dwell, a toast is held in their honor,
For China's gates swing wide, not for menace, but for donor.
Now bellows forth the cask of trade, the vintner's hand tis firm,
In health the grape of knowledge grows, to foreign vines we turn.
Yet cross the ocean, banners low, a sullen ale doth flow,
In the month ascrib'd to autumn's wake, the stocks in sorrow grow.
Since days of old, September's cold hath seemed not stocks' fair friend,
Drink deep the bitter broth of fate, on market's whim we depend.
In far-off India, skills are fraught, with golden tongues they jest,
A cheat's rye ale doth flow with ease through the exam's bitter test.
A darkened mead they do purvey, 'gainst honor they conspire,
For 'neath their guise of tutoring lies a cesspool of mire.
