A Petrarchan sonnet on the British Airways strike

A strike! No festive spirit for this crew
Twelve days of Christmas walkouts we await
Just anguished travellers at each departure gate
Delays and cancellations all accrue
The war of words in press breaks out anew
The union and managers recriminate
While passengers are left to meet their fate
Now all of their vacation plans are screwed
And if both sides persist to bluff and fob
They’ll kill the goose that lays the golden egg
If BA can’t plug their financial hole
They’ll end up bust and all will lose their job
Thus both sides for a compromise should beg
For all are equal queuing for the dole