The Apology
MeanMesa has never been much of a poet [Shakespeare is, no doubt, breathing a sigh of relief.], but this futile effort is sent with best wishes to our blog's visitors in Ukraine. The hope here at Short Current Essay's Galactic HeadQuarters is that this wisp of a broken poem might lift the spirits of those facing the Russians so bravely.
Naturally, there is also the secret hope that it will really piss off someone in the Kremlin.
Please remember that Ukraine has friends -- lots more and lots bigger than the Russians have.
Do we mean Vlad the Impaler? No, of course, not.
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| Vlad the Impaler |
We mean this guy.
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| Vlad the Cowboy [image Cagle.com] |
Vlad's Lament
Just sit pat. Be strong. "We'll win in the end"
We'll be fabulous - like a run away train.
Who cares who this sleezy scam will offend?
We'll liberate Crimea - absorb all of Ukraine!
Now dozens of my fidgeting billionaires
are all in a cluster, their hankies a'wringin',
their billionaire faces all drawn in despair,
their frantic bankers are howlin' not singin'.
A couple of sanctions made them complain.
But I've always had that stubborn flirtation
to reestablish every drab tooth aching pain
of old Joe Stalin's Soviet Imperial fixation.
We were going to shut off Ukraine's gas
so they'd know for sure just who's boss,
but bogging down in Merkel's EU impasse
has left GAZPROM stuck in the sauce.
I've got gads of guns, tanks and Russian boys
plus hundreds of crazy, useful drunks in Donetsk,
bristling with jet liner shooting down toys,
while all built to impress, now only grotesque.
I don't like gays or singin' hot babes galore
or oil tycoons who are roaming too loose,
but even more than all that, I mostly abhor
my Kiev puppet runnin' back home to roost.
Old West Rootin' Tootin' and Six Gun Shootin'!
I'm svelte and gloriously macho, not simply chesty.
Pet my horse. Stand in my light. I'm Vladimir Putin!
In fact, in my mind I'm practically Prince Nevsky!
Maybe you could just give him Chernobyl.
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