As the Dnipro is draining today,
Russian soldiers are running away,
But they still want their fun,
At the point of a gun,
So they’re forcing the victims to stay.
The dam was just so underhanded,
But Russians downstream are more candid;
As waters are swelling
They’re busily shelling
The rescuers helping the stranded.
Let Putin be cast in the drink, too,
On video we can all link to,
But call off the boaties
And puncture his floaties
And witness the depths he will sink to.
Who would blow up a dam in the night?
Well, the Russians - when losing a fight,
They will always distract
With a criminal act
Of explosive aggression and spite.
It’s a risk, in the Army Infernal,
To be holding the rank of a Colonel;
All it seems to attract
Is munitions, in fact …
But the rest it affords is eternal.
The abyss of humanity’s dregs
Huddles, clutching his Fabergé eggs;
With drones over Novo
He’s fallen a number of pegs.
Putin’s building a bunker aroun’ them,
The wealthiest Muskovites - noun them
Now we just need a dam
Overflowing, to flood it and drown them.
Putin nervously paces at home, But his aircraft remain on the drome,
For a rogue Russian jet,
He imagines, may yet,
Do a Belgorod right on his dome.
To let the aggressor retain
Any part of the land of Ukraine
Would leave people behind,
Of Ukrainian mind,
To be tortured, imprisoned and slain.
It’s FSB witch-hunting season -
Denounce, cause you don’t need a reason;
You’ll earn a promotion
And show your devotion
By charging your elders with treason.
The Soviet Union has fled
The Security Council; it’s dead.
Ukraine asks, unanswered,
Why Russia the Rancid
Now sits at the table instead.
So little force left, should they spend it?
And where, if they do, should they send it?
There’s growing disorder
On Belgorod’s border,
And Russia’s unable to end it.
In Russia, so much is taboo …
If you want to stay out of the poo,
Tell your kids not to draw,
Never mention the war,
And you mustn’t wear yellow and blue.
The Russians, unquestioning, did
What their psychopath president bid:
Blew in at full throttle,
Like flies in a bottle,
And never considered the lid.
These aerial unmanned incursions,
And mystery border insertions,
Force Russia’s unending
To greater and greater exertions.
When a place people live is attacked,
Putin says: ‘That’s a terrorist act.'
We can only agree,
And we’re happy to see
He’s accepted the label, in fact.
It’s Summer, and bound to engender
Mixed thoughts in the Russian defender;
As the steppe comes alive,
Many choose to survive,
And they’re crossing the lines to surrender.
The Russians are busy inflating
Their feathers, all talk and berating,
Their boots on the ground
Left to wander around
In a fog of confusion and waiting.
The war has developed a way now,
Where it’s visiting Russia each day now,
As was never the plan
Of the never-a-man
Who has ever so little to say now.
Just a little, not over-proportioned,
Was the share of explosives apportioned
To the drones in the night
On their mystical flight,
But the Russian elite have been cautioned.
Poor dictator, waking in fright,
To explosions and flickering light;
There’s a cry of dismay
Where the indolent play,
And no rest for the wicked this night.
A mysterious drone fleet attacks
Part of Moscow that generally lacks
Any cause for concern
Or incentive to learn
What they’d see if they looked through the cracks.
The Wedding Flight
Long Reef Beach, Sydney
No rules - Putin opted to waive them:
Just get the job done, and enslave them;
So they brought to the war
All their darkness and more,
And they think that a river can save them.
Baba Yaga, an old Russian nightmare,
Who terrifies kids in their nightwear,
Flies above the terrain,
In the dark, in Ukraine,
Stalking terrified Russians who fight there.