From Neom's sandy expanse, a vision daring and grand,
Where workers wilt 'neath the prince's regal hand.
Goats in the grove, their fate tied to the land,
In silent mourning, they make their silent stand.
Like a hare cowed by the falcon in the sky,
Putin's words fall short, with naught but a sigh.
A snail's stoic shell, a futile attempt to deny,
The tragic end of those destined to fly.
The progressive moon dips behind the mountain's might,
While the dog of populism barks in the twilight.
Rabbits retreat, gripped by an uncertain plight,
As economic winter blights the hopeful night.
