Abstract
She is poodle-white, yet fell as death,
With a faintly faustian trace.
By a quirk of fate I find myself
With this lady, face-to-face.
But I’m prepared. Rights are my trade,
I thunder with treaties and law,
I answer the questions she asks of me
But for her, I can see it’s a bore.
And I see not a glimmer of interest
In eyes that are turning to glass.
Then once again she asks me
– Why rights, when we can talk gas?
This, I hear continually
From functionaries of the EU.
They mention it only obliquely,
Like deals with the dark side they do.
Year in, year out, come drought or flood,
I go racing around like a dog
Are my strings being pulled by something demonic?
– Or nevertheless in the hand of God?
Let good and bad go slugging it out
And rights challenge imports of gas,
Sometimes I am graced with a victory.
– And someone goes free at last.