In the halls where stories doth flow like mead,
A change is nigh, the Skald's craft may recede.
On tempest-tossed seas of script and screen,
The golden age of tales, no longer seen.
To east, in Poland, known as J-Town's stead,
Stout warriors move arms, their duty bred.
'Gainst lurking spies, their cause they staunchly defend,
In this grim dance of war, none can pretend.
Yet, in the market, a gentle summer's sigh,
Of wavering heat, as inflation doth lie.
The price pressure ebbs, like tide at its fall,
As August marks a cooling, welcomed by all.
