Always too eager for oil futures
We picked up bad habits of dependency.
Cheap, safe supplies might yet be ours; every day
Till then we'd say,

Watching from spy satellites, the clear,
Forbidden flares of coveted wells appear.
How slow they are! And how much cash they waste,
Producing without haste!

Yet still they'd cheat us, holding pointless talks
On rigged oil quotas, for, though nothing balks,
Each big approach, bribing with contracts linked,
Each clause distinct,

Priced, and the sweeteners with golden share
Coming their way, it never pays off; they're
No sooner 'sell-outs' than they're turned from power.
So in one hour

We thought, by shock and awe, each bomber's load
Would bring our safety back, all we were owed
For exploiting so crudely and so long.
But we were wrong:

Only one deep is waiting us, our black-
Souled own familiar, bringing in its track
A huge mushrooming silence. In its name
No well springs flare or flame.

                    (Apologies to Philip Larkin)