Beneath the veil of darkened night, Remy Cointreau's plight,
Organic sales they do foresee, lessen by fifth or one of three.
Their market in the New World wanes, amidst fierce contests, losses gains,
High they soar, those interest rates, whilst distributors' funding waits.
A tale I weave now of CaixaBank's gain,
Profit has risen, easing strain.
Lending income's swelling tide, has brought a boon on autumn's ride,
Despite a portfolio’s dissent, still rosy are the dividends sent.
Naught but shadows cast their drape, on Covestro's evolving shape,
Lowered forecasts they now declare, earnings scarce in rarified air.
The environment proves hostile, sowing doubt on profit's aisle,
An arduous year their books confess, echoes of a business in distress.
