Sanctions are war wearing a bureaucrat's clothes,
And ought to pass under Congressional nose,
But the prez is free to impose right and left,
And of sweet Nikes leave creep-os bereft.
He has a huge staff that keeps track of them all,
Lest prissy Putin get his baldness cure-all.
.
Our sanction guys sit and mull over new sanc's,
Pore over suggestions from rightist think tanks,
For choosing good sanc's is in itself an art,
Performed with cool head and a naughty boy's heart:
"Let's see: we've done spare parts, tomatoes and oil.
What crucials remain that we can still spoil?"
.
So for vain Venezuelans no mustache combs,
North Kor's must get by without Levittown homes,
For Russians their Whoppers without special sauce,
Which from fine dining kills off all the gloss.
Iranians and Syrians go looking for bricks:
They might need to throw some at Israeli hicks.
.
Yeah, things can turn grave when you're living with sanc's,
No wheels for your ride and no cash in the banks,
You can't get a job 'cause there's no wood to cut
Inflation is rife, the econ's in a rut.
You'd like to get out to the country for air,
But when you get back: "Hey! My sink isn't there."
.
The Yanks always hope that the locals will rise,
And kick out their rulers who antagonize
The earnest comb-overs on earth's other side,
Who'd happily lift sanc's if you'd just abide
By their rules, their trade, and their flicks heaven-sent,
And their kow-towing to the cool One Percent.
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