From wagon's wheel to smithy's forge, hear ye this tale dire,
Four-thousand guilded workers, in arms, they do retire.
On Mack’s own truck they turned their back, contract refused in ire,
Much like the ale, when turned too stale, fails to inspire.
In yonder East, a garden vast, known well for its gold bloom,
Now struggles in the waning light, in debt and facing doom.
Shares tumbled like the autumn leaves, in silence of the room,
Ale's head froths high, then falls to nigh, presaging an impending gloom.
In the realm where dragons dwell, a curious tale unfolds,
The people's coin clings tight to palm, no splendor it beholds.
Houses stand, unsought, unplanned, the market's warmth waned cold,
'Tis like the wine, when past his prime, a story told and retold.
