To EasyJet's strong demand in the winter frost,
A hearty profit, no steward nor passenger lost.
God bless the fly-ship, by more than the fifteenth held,
Filled to the brim, like a December ale-vat swelled.
Anglo American, in Peruvian mine nestled,
With copper bountiful, their hands neatly wrestled.
An eleven-score rise 'neath Quellaveco's cloak,
Like God's own blessing poured into his disciples' yoke.
Spanish Bonds they sing a pre-election tune,
Yet still remain as sweet as a June afternoon.
With risk as low as a monk's fine-tuned speech,
Erste does declare it a fruit within reach.
