Of sterling's rise, I sing a tale,
As inflation doth assail,
The Bank of England's trust doth wane,
June and eke August, rates shall strain.
With oil, a drawdown doth appear,
As API numbers steer,
In Saudi preacher’s voice, we hold,
A threat of cuts that maketh bold.
Of gold, that glittering treasure sought,
For refuge, in this world distraught,
As metals mixed in London bide,
And western weakness e'er abides.
