by Paul Gallagher
When that the Winter’s long and solid freeze
Gave way to March, and to a changing breeze,
Europe’s barons, with their teeth on edge
In fear, agreed to make a pilgrimage
To seek to meet th’ uncouth American kinge,
Who dared to say that peace was a good thinge;
They vowed to teach him warre, and gave their pledge.
First came the French pretender, sly Macron—
Whose name is sounded like the English “raw”—
He gripped the arm and patted the knee of Trump,
And if he dared he would have pinched the rump,
To show he was a jolly warrior boye
And tempt the kinge to think that warre is joye.
They smiled at him; he retreated in a slump.
Next flew the Lady Kallas from Estonia,
Suffering anti-Russian megalo-monia;
She knew that Rubio would welcome her,
And swore that with a chance, that she could stir
Even Trump to warre, and make him Putin’s foe.
But even Minister Rubio failed to showe.
The Lady’s furies are not what they were.
The British knight, Sir Keir—at home he snarls—
Now fawned on Trump with invites from King Charles
And a promise to spend more pounds on defence,
Scrooging the extra from the indigents.
But the British boffin paled at what he heard
