In 1978, I went to Sheffield City Hall to see a band called Be Bop Deluxe, fronted by Bell Nelson, who has been decsribed as "one of the most underrated guitarists of the seventies art rock movement”. Interestingly, the name of this site comes from one of his songs ‘Rooms With Brittle Views’, which I’ve always considered to be equally under-rated.
Anyway, at that show, instead of having a up and coming NEw Wave band opening for them, out walked John Cooper Clarke, self-styled ‘punk poet’. I was lucky enough to see him a couple of times, and while I can’t quite quite match his snarky Mancunian delivery, this one is dedicated to him!
The Rose Garden's blooming.
The briefing has begun.
The man with a sharpie
has the world on the run.
He smirks at the press,
like the cat that got the cream.
Purrs "kind tariffs",
then shreds the global dream.
"Just maths", he says.
We want to play fair.
Then opens a list,
and calls it a prayer.
Fiji? Fined.
Guyana? Drowned.
This ain't diplomacy,
it's flesh by the pound.
Micronesia? Taxed
Tuvalu? Slapped.
Tiny islands,
not so politely smacked.
It's not who trades,
but who can't be heard.
Who gets sliced thin,
then quietly blurred.
But who's gone missing?
Who's ducked the slap?
Who slipped the net,
of this tariff trap?
No Russia. No Cuba.
No Kim. No Minsk.
"They're handled", he smirks
with a diplomatic rinse.
No fees for thugs.
No tolls for might.
Just closed-door nods,
and deals inked at night.
The more you bomb,
the less you pay.
They call it Liberation,
the Mafia way.
Call it a formula.
Call it divine.
It's "reciprocal", sure,
if you blur the line
And Mexico? Handled.
We've settled the score.
Canada? Quiet.
Filed under "Ignore".
Vanuatu?
Pay up mates.
Your copra offends
His Majesty's United States.
They ran the numbers,
like roulette spins.
This isn't math,
it's rigged for wins.
Pay to export.
Pay to breathe.
Pay for the crime,
of thinking to leave.
No Russia. No Cuba.
No Kim. No Belarus.
No awkward questions.
No diplomatic fuss.
"They're already punished",
he says, and grins.
Too bad the others,
must pay for their sins.
So dance the Tariff Tango.
Pass the blame.
It’s musical chairs,
in a no-win game.
Call it trade.
Call it tax.
Call it fair.
Then turn your backs.
The world pays tolls
to stage the show.
And those who broke it,
they sit front row.
Love it!