Roche, bold buyer of "Telavant" pride,
Laid down their gold, no sum was e'er denied.
From Roivant's chest, the prize taketh its ride,
Their cure-pipe strengthened, and their chests imbued.
The gold, it settles, yet it holdeth dear,
In London's morn with Gaza's strife so near.
The gleaming metal folds yet fear is clear,
The world in tumult; war's bitter taste of beer.
The dollar, steadfast, holds its sacred vow,
'Gainst gilded standards, ne’er does it bow low.
Tensions of East in ebb, steadiness shows,
In Monday’s light, it keeps its quiet row.
