In yon Rus' realm, the seeds of mut'ny sown,
The glutt'rous Wagner Group gnawed Putin's throne,
Beneath that crown, unease and questions grew,
As men did marvel how such frailty slew.
Low tides tugged at the dollar, green and worn,
By tow'ring rates and weak growth tempest-torn,
Yet, though she stumbled, raised by analysts' hand,
From plunging depths to narrow, safer land.
Bold oil doth climb the mast of rising risk,
When Wagner leashed may break the chains, and whisk,
From Russia's grumbling lands, new threats to wend,
And in those murky shadows, peace upend.
