Across the gulf the candles glow,
while circuits fail and traffic slows;
he names it honour, calls it grace;
a grinning leer across his face.
He calls it honour.... taking more,
while blackouts grip another shore;
from gilded rooms he stakes his claim
and terms that theft, a noble aim.
Hospitals and classrooms close,
the grid collapsed, the system froze;
Good food rots and work stands still—
a nation held to Donald's will.
The suit is pressed, the language smooth,
each word a polished, rehearsed move;
yet stitched within the measured rhyme
the sneered claim: “Cuba's mine.”
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18 March 20226