Gather, oh gentlemen, in this bloodied hall,
Where ambition’s whispers flutter and fall,
Beyond the pretence, the masks we don,
We dig through the layers till the truth is gone.
See how wealth sprawls like ivy on brick,
Its tendrils entwining, oh so slick,
Power, that river, both murky and grand,
Carries us forth, hand in greedy hand.
O Bibi, dear architect of the jest,
Do not let history put you to the test,
For fate’s wicked fingers weave tales in the night,
In shadows we wander, searching for light.
Vladimir, a jester on fate’s fickle stage,
With hopes on your shoulders, you dance with rage,
As thunderous fears echo loud in your chest,
Yet trade binds us tighter, for better or less.
Speak, Don The Con, with your silvered tongue,
Let profit’s sweet siren song keep us young,
In war’s cruel theatre, ambition demands,
Gold glimmers brightly, but how it expands!
Yet ultimately, gentlemen, we play our roles,
In this grand charade where ambition consoles,
As debates whirl like leaves in a tempest’s embrace,
The vision, elusive, slips into space.
Business, our compass, in twilight we roam,
Beneath all the bluster, the truth finds a home,
In epic conflicts, where shadows creep low,
Seize the moment, or watch as we go.
In this curious chamber, where stars conspire,
We craft our own legends, fuelled by desire,
From darkened abysses to empires that gleam,
Together we sculpt the contours of dream.
So raise from your seats, praise the jest,
For life’s but a stage, and we’re here as guests,
In this epic convergence, we’ll laugh and we’ll cry,
As history watches, with a wry, knowing eye.
