Ukrainian Love Story of a Most Barbaric and Unlettered Warrior
In these dark times of strife,
clad only in thin wretched skin,
I prey on my own vitals like
a most barbaric and unlettered warrior,
leader of a motley swarm of heathens,
the original Ukrainian plague
that sacked Russia
and gave birth to true liberty
Our battle cry: Sekir Baschka!
echoes across a thousand battlefields
of our beloved Ukraine
I pray for any blink of animation
that may remain after a life
of debauchery and abuse:
my soul polluted by unchastity

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and pleasures of the bottle
Yes, that was I:
an unbridled representation
of obscenity, cupidity, and buffoonery,
sunk so far into absurdity
that rescue was hopeless
Such audacity of ignorance,
the corrupt senses of a man
condemned
The awful silence of my grave,
where I am stalked by spectres
of grey and callous texture,
whose criminal permission
and rapaciousness usurp
any reverence I held while
blood still coursed my veins
I pressed the hands of the self-important
and wore my nobiliary title like a princely diadem
Yes, I was once a beautiful and magnificent specimen
of a man, an inner atmosphere
now ruined by the acidic residue of constant abuse
The morn of my awful death,
I was cashiered by a fat king
and a purple declaration of unholy law,
then dropped at the end of a short rope,
growing quite still in mere seconds,
while my shadow twisted in the cool breeze
of a 9th of May
a Day of Victory from those Russian bastards
As my shell grew cold and brittle,
the last vestiges of my heart
ruptured and released celestial fury
that colored the heavens a noble purple
and felled a year of rain
on the valley below
As I sit here on my grey cloud,
buffeted by the jet stream and
recalling old thots:
there exists a supreme failure
of my accurate history,
unfairly plagued by turgid memories
I contemplate my Russian enemies over there,
and wish upon them the holiest of holidays:
Pestilence. Famine. Murder. Robbery.
Not necessarily in that order
How easily the soul is swept away
by such unreasonable passion,
giving all of it a
certain episcopal indignity,
befitting a cardinal prince of the
demonic Roman court
My ancient ruins are now
mantled with underwood
and radioactive daisies from Chernobyl
that no bee would dare sniff
While I lie in my earthly tomb,
you wax,
I wane . . .
you advance,
I decay . . .
you bloom,
I wither
And our beloved Ukraine lives on
in holy peace and comfort. . . .
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