In WPP's keep, a shadow deep, weak profits take their toll,
Like snails' trail, profits frail, tech's weight upon the whole.
Anticipates a future state, with margins firm and proud,
But mirth has fled, turns to dread, beneath a sullen shroud.
Those second signs once enticing, now bring disappointment dire,
A dog that limps, its spirit dims, WPP's prospects tire.
Their outlook cut, wounds half-shut, investors' trust does falter,
As stock unwinds like tangled vines, at the unhappy alter.
The German Bund, a rabbit run, to which our eyes do dart,
Above two-fives, the market thrives, urged by Societe's art.
In its duration, nay, salvation, should we invest our trust,
So on each dip, increase our grip, in this we place our thrust.
