A glut of silicon stone, forged in Odin's own fire,
Drags Infineon's might to the mire.
Less gold from gadgets, carriages and gears,
Third the crow's call of lesser sales appears.
Societe Generale, in the mead hall's din,
Frees northern banks, their coffers full to the brim.
With the Swiss Union, they committed a pact,
A horde of gold exchanged, a thousand million extracted.
Upon fair Australia, a specter of fear starts,
Young men seek glory through the shadowed arts.
The threat grows, as deep as the sea is wide,
Religion and race, fanning war's gruesome tide.
