Atacama Resources International Inc (ACRL)

[Suvorov]

Twas the night before Christmas, when through the ACRL house,
Not a drill was turning was not even a computer mouse,
The shares were hung on the pink sheets with much care,
In hopes that South of the fault the gold was still there.

The ACRL management were all snug in their beds,
While visions of toxic debt danced in their heads,
And Berry in his Mercedes, and Glenn in his old cap,
Just settled to convert preferred in a financial tap.

When out in the bush there arose such a large clatter,
Posters sprang from their beds to see what was the matter.
Away from Tim Hortons geologists flew like a flash,
Went into the bush to see an old 3d seismic tool stashed.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave to the idea that no one could know,
To my wondering eyes where could the stock go?
But with a miniature Seismic the stock will go low.

With an old computer, so lively and with such trick,
I knew in a moment the stock story was deathly sick.
More rapid that eagles the stock came down
In a cold,cold place they called Kirkland Town.