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

Where Is The Lodge-Philbin Act When Ukraine Needs It The Most?

Read Next: Where Is The Lodge-Philbin Act When Ukraine Needs It The Most?

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. . . .