The Fright Before Christmas
Oh, come gather ‘round, comrades, it’s that time of year,
When the vodka flows freely, and truth disappears.
Old Vlad trims his spruce tree with a smile so wide,
While a million small coffins do hang side by side.
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The generals all clap as the music plays loud,
“Another fine victory!” they tell the crowd.
But beneath all the glitter, the snow has turned red,
For each shiny “ornament” had once had a head.
Now joy in the Kremlin it comes factory-made,
In speeches and posters and parades that fade.
So pour out the toasts, let the false bells ring—
It’s a funeral disguised as a holiday thing.
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