You quit Iran’s old nuclear deal;
Then bombs became the next appeal.
In twenty-five, the bombers flew;
In twenty-six, the warfare grew.
Your peace pitch needs a slight repair:
It keeps exploding in midair.
At Hormuz, shipping faced attack;
The fuel-price shock came traveling back.
At pumps and freight depots, the bill
Arrived without a campaign thrill.
The family budget joined the fight—
Its casualties get less limelight.
Then tariffs! Foreigners would pay!
A lovely pitch. Except, say,
The import bill came due right here,
And parts for OUR goods grew more dear.
The foreign tribute, by and by,
Was paid by folks at Best Buy.
O master of the golden sign,
Who treats the public trust as MINE,
Who markets every crack as strength
And measures truth by banner length:
The country isn’t real estate.
Its laws aren’t yours to renovate.