The Kerch Bridge

Putin wasn’t concerned with protection
When he forced his unwanted connection;
His unnatural lust
Added length to his thrust,
But he couldn’t maintain his erection.

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Putin’s trip to Luhansk is all front,
Using officers groomed for the stunt,
And a stage fitted out
As the worthy redoubt
Of a slimy, degenerate runt.

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Putin’s visited troops at the rear -
So he says, but the facts are unclear:
For in footage collated
And geolocated,
The dictator doesn’t appear.

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Far-removed from the catus in Cato,
Putin frowns, like a puzzled potato,
A delusional spud
Coming down with a thud
Cause he’s doubled his border with NATO.

Putin’s talked through his arse from the start;
Now his underwear’s falling apart.
Take ‘petard’, often pinned,
From the French ’to break wind’,
And he’s hoist by his own little fart.

The Order of Courage is spawning
In Russia, but not for the fawning;
Its recipients, cursed,
Have to detonate first,
Which for some may be seen as a warning.

The achievements of Putin are sweeping,
And recorded for Infamy’s keeping;
Every notch, every knurl,
Like the death of a girl,
Just eleven years old, who was sleeping.

Reptilian Russian, a repto,
Sends force, unprepared and inepto,
To ransack the store
Of the nation next door
In the classic, Attack of the Klepto.

Putin’s trains run on secretive tracks,
Lest his populace venture attacks.
Russia’s fearful and grim,
But it terrifies him,
And the tyrant can never relax.

If Putin were vegetable, gee,
What manner of plant would he be?
As a poisonous seed
He could grow to a weed,
But he’d never amount to a tree.

Putin’s version of history is twisted
With falsehoods, pathetically listed;
By his logic, what’s more,
Russia’s losing its war
To a nation that never existed.

With so many men never-aftered,
Russia’s looking for more to get shafted;
But political stuff
Means there’s never enough -
Putin’s doubles are not to be drafted.

For ridiculous, nothing can rival
Putin’s Great Patriotic Revival;
Yet there is, as he spake,
Some existence at stake -
Russia’s fighting for Putin’s survival.

Take the Council, it’s yours to enjoy,
As you murder a five-month-old boy
In Avdiivka, where you
Killed his grandmother, too.
What a brave new world order, Old Boy.

In Putin’s peculiar obsession,
He’s an emperor seeking expression;
As a Nazi who’d like
His own thousand-year Reich,
He’s indifferent to words like aggression.

With Ukraine so gamely resisting,
Russia’s ship of aggression is listing.
As the vessel goes down,
Some abandon, some drown,
And a little tsar’s neck gets a twisting.

In his bubble, with those who agree,
Vladimir Vladimirovich P
Gives a shrug at Bakhmut:
‘They’re just fodder on foot.
All that matters to history is me.'

For Putin, a cease-fire’s appealing -
His war of aggression is reeling;
But Ukraine will control
All its territory, whole,
Ere it stops for a scone and Darjeeling.

Is anyone e’er so reviled
As one who would murder a child?
And could there be any
Who’ve murdered as many
As Putin, as so far compiled?

The Axis, claims Putin’s new sting,
Lives again in the West. What a thing!
But the only new Axis,
In theory and praxis,
Is Russia aligned with Beijing.

It’s a drone war, the first, no dissem’lin’,
But ‘drone’ is a bit of a gremlin:
There’s the flying device,
Then there’s taking advice
From the drones who inhabit the Kremlin.

Little Putin is singing a song:
‘I have columns of tanks that are strong.
And you’ll know you’re alive
In a T-55,
Though you mightn’t be knowing it long.'

I’m a coward, says Vladimir Puting:
You’ll never get me near the shooting.
Put some stooges in place
For my stand-in to face,
Then I’ll let you get back to the looting.

There’s a log in a bog in a fog
And a dog on the log in the bog
And a frog in the bog
That’s agog at the dog
On the log in the bog in the fog

It’s a local but physical law,
That in England, if one is outdoor,
And an object is downed,
It will never hit ground,
But is certain to land on the floor.