At Eights and Sevens

In the river salmon gambol, in the trees the squirrels play.
In casinos people gamble, Grand Theft Auto children slay.
In the sky the fighters scramble, on the ground the Afghans pray.
TV pundits on they ramble, radio hosts foam as they bray.
Population’s all a-tremble... Welcome to the U.S.A.

The ditty above is another consequence of my walks, undertaken for health reasons. In getting up some speed, rather than slouching along, I started counting my steps. One, two, one two, one two, one, two, one, two, one, two—one, two, three. The rhythm was pleasing and, thinking about it, using my fingers to keep the order, I saw that this makes two lines, one of eight and one of seven beats. Later we were playing a game of My Word. I got done first and, while waiting for Brigitte to guess my challenging secret word, ALFRESCO, I played with the rhythms produced in my walk and managed the above before she triumphantly solved the puzzle. I've joined the eights and sevens into single lines to save space, I suppose. Conserving resources? For people in whom the poem's title does not immediately produce echoes, I recommend further elucidation here.