His Heart is Rotten to the Core

 

His Heart is Rotten to the Core

His comrades writhe, while they are bound, to believe, their emperor’s lies,

As he refuses, to see, beyond the glint of gold, firmly fixed, within his eyes.

While in exclusive solitude, he lives the life, of the poor people’s stolen dreams,

Eating the finest foods, with exquisite wines, deemed fit, for kings and queens.

Hiding behind, his gold crested, wrought iron gates, and solid entrance doors,

In his grand palace, of marble slabs, with towering arches, and mosaic floors.

Living like a star, in his grand imperial palace, bought on the blood of others,

Let by the heartache, sorrow, grief, and the suffering, of his surrogate mothers.

Safe, from all the wasted lives, he’s had taken, and all, the poor souls, he’s sold,

As he dreams, of having great wealth, and power, and the Midas touch of old,

Each day in Ukraine, time and again, the golden sun reveals, his damage done,

By his tanks, jets, ships, bombs, missiles, mortar, incendiary and gigantic guns.

In cities, the haunting ruins, a painful reminder, of memories that won’t leave,

A recuring woe, that wells inside, while heart-breaking images, so sadly weave.

In ignorance, the pointless quest, to rid the Ukrainian people, from their land,

The unwelcome stain of blood, of souls set free, the invaders eternally damned.

Damn the ruthless army, that raised a multitude of villages, towns, and cities,

Leaving such unsightly scenes, of streets strewn, with badly mutilated bodies.

And Putin’s scorched earth policy, a pointless pursuit, to turn the nation black,

Soon, the time will come, the tide will turn, his brutal army, will be beaten back.

And the hordes of orcs, unwelcome adversaries, will retreat, homeward bound,

Leaving lonely graves, and the blood, of their innocent victims, on the ground.

Then the boot, will be on the other foot, Tsar Putin’s prospects, will be really bleak,

And Russia’s Kremlin, will have to account, to pay, for the havoc, it has wreaked.