Fell the output, bound under gold,
In mighty France, where tales be told.
For coins that jingle have their hold,
Like goats, led astray from the fold.
Beumelburg speaks with words so bold,
Of changes warm and tales of cold.
Rabbits hop forth, deeds of old,
Through innovation, new paths unfold.
In Casino's lore, a deal foretold,
To snail-like pace, creditors hold.
For fortunes wane and debts uphold,
Like dogs bark at shadows in the cold.
