Of blackest gold subdued, a tale I tell,
Investor eyes do glimpse a woeful plight,
In Arab lands, where cuts and trade do dwell,
'Tis not supply nor hunger mark their sight.
The coin of realm, the Dollar holds its gains,
As BOC doth raise their rates with glee,
But like the monk who savors grape's remains,
Hold cautious breath ere Tuesday's news we see.
On metals mixed, as turmoil doth remain,
A storm of macro trials dims the sky,
The headwinds blow on market's vast terrain,
And downward pressure haunts their days, say I.
