Upon an Oiler Russian, Ukraine cast her ire,
Its value, once resounding, did like a psalm retire.
The tavern's drink scarce different, when fraught with plight and fire,
Its worth is hushed, mid-April no more shall it inspire.
A confluence of metals, some low and others peak,
Like a barkeep's wares, their value, the meek and strong shall tweak.
Gold, noble as a saint's heart, did fall with outlook bleak,
Yet like a sturdy cellar, constrained supply doth speak.
The dollar, like dry cider that's been left out in the sun,
On Friday fell, but now finds strength, its losses all but won.
Yet, like a merry drunkard, its glee may come undone,
If Thursday's data tells us inflations' race is run.
