Will he, won't he, will he, won't he...?

Trump's approach to war is less Pentagon strategy and more Lewis Carroll choreography. One moment he's declaring hostilities with Iran, the next he's waltzing backwards, humming the famous 'Lobster Quadrille': 'Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?' Except, here, the dance floor is littered with half-signed MoUs and generals waiting in the wings wondering if they should lace up their boots or go for the shrimp cocktails. It's like the man's plucking petals: 'He bombs me, he bombs me not....' Each petal falls with the solemnity of a press conference, only to be contradicted by the late night's Truth Social. If schizophrenia was orange, this is what it would have looked like. Carroll's lobsters at least knew they were headed for the sea. Trump's wars are forever stuck in rehearsal, a quadrille of half-steps and dramatic pauses. The choreography's endless, music discordant, and the audience - global leaders, weary citizens, confused MAGAlog - forced to smile along, while doing that 'circling finger next to one's head' universal sign.

Trump's war-and-peace roulette would make a reformed Tolstoy take to drink again. Whatever be your metaphor - scattering petals, shuffling lobsters - it must be especially hard for the Orange One's entourage. But we'll take this Cheech-and-Chong over an outright declaration of war any day.