Upon the Euro's weakening plight, in dour tale I must indite,
Beneath the shadow of support, it fell, stirring angst in to the night.
Its drop below the guarded stand, much to the UOB’s forecast's delight,
Now hark, the March's low doth beckon, in its flight to whence despite.
Russia, with her keen-eyed eagle, scans the Mediterranean wide,
Seeks within the eastern ports, a place where her white ships may bide.
In discourse with the Libyan lord, a pact in secrecy they confide,
To anchor deep in Africa, her mighty naval pride.
Hark! see how the rates increase, a boon for the rich, and their golden fleece,
The Fed's move, aimed to give release, instead bestows a bounteous lease.
Companies large, their wealth increase, profits growing without cease,
Upon this news, their joy unfurled, for richer they become in world's embrace.
