Trump, In Verse

Investors have announced a game of chicken they will play,
depending on the state of tariffs any given day:
I’ll threaten to increase them in my version of a tweet,
then change my mind impulsively and stage a swift retreat.

They call them “TACO” trades, since my resolve’s that of a chicken.
I crow – then back away, which makes investors’ pulse rates quicken.
“Trump Always Chickens Out” they say, and claim I’m indecisive;
ambivalence on all goods you just want to know the price of.

I say I’ll make a deal with any land that meets me halfway.
Two courts have ruled against me, but a third gave me a pathway.
I’ll wipe out debt with tariffs – once enacted, they’ll perform well.
(That argument’s as flimsy as a taco’s brittle corn shell.)

I don’t care much for Mexicans, but sure love taco salad.
I now blame Leonard Leo as these courts rule me invalid.
While clear that I am spineless, I’ll lash back at any schmuck who
has the nerve to call me “chicken.” My response to them is, “Cluck you.”