Blessings upon Ryanair, where profits soar high,
As into the Treasury, gold they supply.
With silver mornings and golden eves, they fare,
Brewing regular dividends in the air.
Prophet Ueda, a man of the Bank, divine,
Sees not the end of rates negative in line,
Until inflation, at stable double bells chime,
In the sacred bank's cloister bides the time.
The Nikkei rises, a mead-pot brimming o'er,
Electronics stocks, like ale, patrons pour.
Borrowing fears abate at soft U.S. jobs' sight,
'Tis indeed a blessed economic night.
