Of Trump and his election woes, we oft heard tell,
His tongue stilled by court's order, yet he might farewell,
The case, he cries, 'tis a concocted hell,
Like vinegar to lips, a truth that doth not well sell.
In the shadow of steepled peaks, the belfry rings twice,
Wells Fargo workers rally, cast union's paradise,
Many a banker's brow with vexation is spiced.
As the toiling men's ale in solidarity is iced.
Alas poor Bayer has taken a mean swig,
Shares have dipped like a drunkard's jig.
A potion of failure, their weedy trial gone big,
Ordered to pay a king's ransom, a bitter fig.
