From the East, where the sly wolf prowls, a tale unfolds,
Of shadow trade in parts of war, by Russian mastermolds.
In night's cloak they weave their work, unbeknownst to Yankie swords,
Through the crypt-hold of tethered coin, they slip the old world's cords.
In the forum where gold is weaved, echoes a change foretold,
The Seven Mighty, now only Four, yet the beast continues bold.
No longer tied to apple's might or Tesla's lightning spark,
The market rallies merrily, lit by other fires in the dark.
News from the East, of the Dragon's brood, serpents who guard the gates,
Temu parent, PDD, in secrets, their trade allocates.
A covenant forged not in trust, but in the chains of law,
The cost of freedom, a dragon's hoard, a price too raw and raw.
