The Storm They Sell

There's a knock at the door each morning,

a new emergency, gift-wrapped,

a fresh end of the world on schedule,

replacing yesterday's, unmet.

And the man who brings the warning

never once has looked afraid.

Odd, that. For a herald of the end,

he sleeps remarkably well.

So before you board the panic,

three questions at the gangway —

There's a storm they sell at every door,

a new one when the old one clears.

Ask who's dry. Ask who's paid.

Ask why it never quite arrives.

The storm they sell, the storm they sell —

check the sky yourself.

Real rain exists. I've stood in it.

Real fires, real floods, real wolves.

That's exactly what the trade needs:

enough true storms to season the fake.

Fear's the oldest currency —

it spends before you think.

And a frightened man will hand his keys

to anyone holding a map.

So before you board the panic,

three questions at the gangway —

There's a storm they sell at every door,

tailored to your postcode's nerves.

Ask who's dry. Ask who's paid.

Ask what they'd like while you're distracted.

The storm they sell, the storm they sell —

check the sky yourself.

I'm not telling you the sky is clear.

I'm telling you to look at it

with your own two eyes,

before you pay a stranger for the view.

There's a storm they sell at every door,

and here's the line to hold at night:

the weather's real.

The panic's rented.

Ask who's dry. Ask who's paid.

Then check the sky yourself —

and pack for what you see.