The Tragic State

To bark, or not to bark, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of this global mess, Or to take paws against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them? Ah, Squeak, my dear, This 'Epic Fury' howls a dreadful tune! Across the desert lands, they strike and strike, Like some mad grinder on the factory floor, Shattering the sky for flying birds, And crumbling homes like old, discarded bricks. The very air, thick with the dust of chaos, Chokes the spirit, and makes the soul go dry. And then these tariffs, Squeak, these monstrous taxes, A fifty per cent slice of human greed! They rip the guts from honest global trade, Like some cheap crim who's pinched a farmer's yield. The supply chains, once a sturdy leash, now snap, For 'territory' and a 'shining thought'. And vows, the solemn pledges of the past, For water shared, and atoms held in check, Are tossed aside like yesterday's stale bone. 'Strategic Dominance!' they snarl and growl, A dingo's hunger in a corporate suit, While the billabong runs dry, and trust goes sour. What then remains of reason, gentle Squeak? When summits turn to brawls, and words are fists, And 'coercive instruments' replace the plea Of sober thought? The rules-based order, friend, Is now a memory, a ghost upon the wind. 'Tis 'might-is-right!' they bellow from the peaks, Like some old boss who’s lost his common sense, And throws a wrench at any honest dog Who seeks a fair go, or a moment's peace. Alas, poor Squeak! The world has gone quite mad, And all our woofs are lost within the din Of power's deafening, relentless thrum.