'Twas the Night Before WWIII

‘Twas the night before WWIII, with the world on a thread, 
Leaders nestled all snug in their five-star beds. 
Sanctions and speeches were spun with such flair, 
Yet none could hide the stench of despair.

The masses lay restless, in beds fit for naught, 
As visions of unrest stirred in the pot. 
The corporatocracy snug in their high tower keeps, 
Dreaming of markets instead of nightmares in their sleeps.

When out in the world there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my screen to see what was the matter.
To the newsfeed I flew with a skeptical dash,
Clicked open the links and awaited the splash.

The glow of the screens on the new-fallen dust
Gave a sheen of unreal to the metal and rust.
When, what to my cynical eyes should appear,
But a convoy of tanks, and drones buzzing near.

As sirens did wail and the broadcasts declare,
A frosty tension hung thick in the air.
More rapid than leaks the accusations they came,
And we watched, and we listened, and we knew them by name:

“Now, Boris! Now, Macron! Now Trudeau and Merkel! 
On, Erdogan! On, Biden! On, Modi and Moon in a circle!”
Their eyes void of mirth, their faces so stark,
They sat shoulder to shoulder, as if in a lark.

The stakes were too high in this great geopolitical game,
Where nations play chess with peoples’ fate all the same.
And then, with an irony that cut through the night,
They spoke of peace and goodwill, their words taking flight.

Each syllable measured, each statement a dance,
World leaders on stage, “Give peace a chance!”
But we heard the click-clack of their polished fine shoes,
And we knew that this summit was just another ruse.

For in the hallowed halls where the diplomats trod,
Lay a gameboard of nations, each playing at god.
And there, in the spotlight, a figure so sly,
Stood the broker of power, his ambitions sky-high.

He was cloaked in brands, from his head to his toe,
And his suit was all speckled with oil and dough;
A bundle of bonds he had flung on his back,
He was Capitalist Santa, with ethics quite slack.

The twinkle in his eye, his synthetic cheer,
Bespoke of a season that profits held dear.
His laugh was a cover for the cunning inside,
As he counted the dividends he’d soon preside.

Yet the workshop was hidden, where brown snowflakes fell,
A remote labor camp where only one holiday dwelled.
His elves, just interns, their labor undressed,
Worked not for cheer but at his behest.

They were gaunt and weary, from the unpaid task,
No jingle in pockets, no questions to ask.
Their “Santa” was shrewd, a mogul quite stark,
With an empire built in the cold shadows and dark.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
The king of high commerce, where dread’s widely spread;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team cracked the whip,
As the wealth of the globe in his ledger did slip.

Yet above all the chaos, one cry sliced the night,
A gloat from the shadows, the king’s sheer delight.
And I heard him exclaim, ere he vanished from sight,
“HAPPY PROFITS TO ME, AND TO ALL A GOOD BLIGHT!”

Written by a jolly J.J. Pryor

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