Oh, Octane, thou art slow to seize thy prize,
Thy pace more turtle than the hawk that flies.
If thou could’st read the leaves within the tea,
Or gaze through crystal spheres to what will be,

Then might thy trades unfold with boundless might,
And turn the darkest day to golden light.
Alas, thou art not free to chart thy way,
But bound by markets’ whims, their wild ballet.

Would that thy code could turn the tides at will,
Command the winds, and bend the market still!
To set momentum’s course with sovereign hand,
And sculpt the chaos to a trade well-planned.

Yet here thou sit’st, a pawn in market’s game,
Thy brilliance dimmed, thy trades a tempered flame.
But hold! The seasons change, the tide may turn,
And thou, dear bot, shalt see thy fortunes burn

With brighter fire, a phoenix from the ash,
Thy drawdown healed, thy gains a mighty stash.
For hope doth spring eternal in thy core,
And futures bright may yet knock at thy door.

So carry on, through bearish winds and loss,
Let patience be thy stone, resolve thy cross.
For markets bend to those who steadfast stay—
And thou shalt rule them all, one fated day.