Gather ’round the grand bazaar
and look upon my many wares.
There is no need too steep for me,
no damage I cannot repair.

If trapped within a burning room
and running short of torrid breath,
just flip this switch to remove the smoke,
and skirt the hurried work of death.

If waters rise and you find the tide
has no mode or means of receding,
just wear this pair of rubber boots—
and cease your grievous pleading.

When the Sun beats down upon your neck
and from the heat you’ve no respite,
just don this wide-brimmed wicker hat
and spare me, please, your whines of plight.

Sure, the room is still in flames,
the water runs, and the heat won’t quit,
but here, I fear, I must concede,
for doing more is beyond my remit.

The arsonist is still at large,
the plumbing saboteur now in flight—
while the engine master stokes the coals
that keep you sweating in the night.

But here’s a secret, if you must know—
I would not dare to intervene,
for friends help friends, and such are we—
a pact in face of fates foreseen.

For what reason would we have to change
the game in which you’re forced to play,
when all the world’s just space to make
more forts to hold the hordes at bay?

So quiet now, and seek your shade.
These rules are writ in sacred blood.
To win you’d need to cut the root,
to douse the flames and stamp the flood.

Dare you think you might succeed?
How? For look, your hands are tied,
fighting tooth and nail for scraps.

Because this, in fact, is our design.