Of Ukrainë's prancing horses bold,
And mines laid thick in soils of war,
Tho' knights do charge with hearts of gold,
Their foes' defense, a bitter snare.
In realm of Dragon Red, Micron,
Aye, blacklisted by lordly frown,
Yet still its coffer gladly shone,
Six hundred millions to lay down.
Upon fair Londën's market scene,
The metals gleam and prices rise,
As Chïna dreams of plentious sheen,
And augurs hope in merchants' eyes.
