Do Svidaniya! Posledneye Proshchay!

 

Do Svidaniya! Posledneye Proshchay!

The Russian mums, have said a hasty goodbye, and it will be their very last,

Their boys are much too young to die, their lives have really quickly passed.

But Putin just wants to fill the gaps, with pawns, and he doesn’t give a toss,

Yes, they are just his cannon fodder, he really doesn’t care about the cost.

Just lives bought with a piece of tin, while Russian son’s decay, turning to dust,

And a brand-new Lada car, that with time, will break down, turning to rust.

The lads are being rushed straight to the frontline, arriving in a day or two,

Comrades issued with rusty Kalashnikovs and expected to know what to do.

Thrown into the deep end, of the bloody cesspool, compelled to sink or swim,

To hold the faltering line, even though the chances of survival, are really slim.

The frontline is like a hungry beast, it devours all the men who come to pass,

Especially the peasant farmers poor sons, and the disadvantaged working class.

They have been told that it is a great honour, to fight under the Russian flag,

Even though within the week, they are likely bound for home, in a body bag!

The boys have bought Putin a little time, that is all, that they could really do,

When it would be much better, if Putin’s packed up his army, and withdrew.

Fraught a Lesson to be Learned

 

Fraught a Lesson to be Learned

Haunted with deaths dark desire, to rid rebellion, and erase alternate thought,

His mindless craving, transformed into a hunger, that has great misery brought.

The genocidal deeds, and malicious strokes, an exceedingly sad state of affairs,

As he constantly shifts, blame to the west, a ploy now met with deafened ears.

He lives the illusion, of the terrible lies he’s told, in their repetitive monotones,

Burdened with ongoing failures, and frustrated, by the ineptitude of his clones.

Each sour step, beset with logistical nightmares, and random rockets thrown,

Desperately clinging, onto his wild dreams, and the evil seeds, that he’s sown.

As exploited bridges, become badly broken, and the bitterness burns his heart,

The cloud of darkness, steadily swelling, as his country is slowly ripped apart.

Despondently considering, his wickedness upon Ukraine, ruthlessly begotten,

While within his rancour soul, pure malice prowls, that cannot be forgotten.

His lust for power, a toxic tumour that’s spread, now too invasive to restrain,

By fear he has recklessly inflicted, the malignant residue, that sadly remains.

His mind still fixed, in deep thought, now caught gazing, into the silver glass,

Wondering how, he’s become a sad reflection, and a mirror of the distant past.

The Glint of their Gold has Gone

 

The Glint of their Gold has Gone

The dull lustre of Russian gold, now cursed forever, in misery remains,

Haunted by the restless spirits, of the tortured, their suffering and pain.

Someone’s jewellery, that was stolen at gunpoint, by murderous thieves,

Beware of the shadow it casts, the terrible stigma, its suffering leaves.

Precious belongings, impregnated with ill fortune, of blood-stained loot,

Plundered from the dead, its dreadful provenance, a matter of dispute.

Tainted and tarnished, let the recipient beware, of misfortune it brings,

The terrible thought, that it came, from melted down watches, and rings.

Silver and gold, mined in dark cellars, and makeshift chambers of death,

From poor victims, who had been tortured, and robbed of their breath.

Dead women, and elderly, getting their gold and silver teeth wrenched,

So, a brutish lust, for perverse pleasure, and treasure could be quenched.

Don’t touch the ill-gotten Russian gold, with its unsavoury providence,

The soiled treasure that points, to the indisputable mountain of evidence.

It is bound to bring bad luck, with the wicked spells, that it now holds,

And sure to be cursed, and haunted, by the innocent lives that it sold.

As the ruthless soldiers, executed their brutal acts, time and time again,

Russian silver and gold now signify, the sadness wrought, upon Ukraine.

In the Bloody Brine of Sacrifice

 

In the Bloody Brine of Sacrifice

The ethnic minorities, are being mobilized, taken at gun point in the street,

Bound into servitude, by Putin’s empty promises, his lies and devilish deceit.

Poor young lads, who will never live to understand, the point of Putin’s war,

The reasons why their lives mean nothing, or what they’re really fighting for.

Pressganged into Putin’s rag tag army, of poor beggars, and arrant thieves,

Deemed worthless pawns, to be shattered and blown, like autumns leaves.

Cast into the frontlines, where there’ll be no returns, from this bloody war,

To pay the ultimate price, of Putin’s errant dreams, within his wicked slaw.

The generals have been instructed, there will be no retreat, or turning back,

To hold on to the last man, no matter what happens, to endure any attack.

The cannon fodder doesn’t stand a chance, there’s nowhere for them to go,

Their days are numbered, we have been told, “They haven’t got a shitshow.”

The new recruits are untrained, and they don’t know how to handle a gun,

Their chances are grim, the odds are slim, and they are sure to be overrun.

The tangled mess, of bodies torn apart, and broken tanks, is a grisly brew.

Its: Situation Normal, All Fouled Up; Or other words to that effect, SNAFU,

The boys are bound to return in body bags, or badly wounded, missing parts,

To join the throngs back home, united in desolation, with badly broken hearts.

As a terrorist state, which will exist for ages, within the depression of disdain,

And Ukraine will wear the hero’s heart, Glory to the Heroes! Glory to Ukraine!

Unearthing the Dead an Ugly Sight to See

 

Unearthing the Dead an Ugly Sight to See

Cautiously treading, within dried bloody trails, that are better not walked,

Subjected to the brutal sights hidden, of blunt trauma, better not talked!

Mass graves, warily excavated, sodden soil sifted, with shovels and spades,

Unearthing the truth, of the odious crimes, exposing bodies, badly decayed.

As the survivors, unwillingly exhumed, terrible acts, of genocide wrought,

Their minds were left languishing, down in ghastly dimensions of thought.

Unable to quell, the pungent smells, and the feelings, of gut-wrenching pain,

As the recuring visions, of victims unearthed, generated repugnance again.

The awful shock, deeply entrenched, tainting their thoughts, sadly measured,

With brave souls, badly distorted, their emotions wrung, and severely severed.

Stressed minds stunned, with utter disgust, heads haunted beyond measure,

Heavy hearts badly tortured, by the sights seen, now souls tormented forever!

The Unforgiving Piece of Work He Paints Upon the Earth

 

The Unforgiving Piece of Work He Paints Upon the Earth

Hark, the Kremlin’s bloody call, right on their threshold, a call too close to home,

While Putin now burdens, the Russian people with blame, to face the world alone.

For, he vainly attempts, to rebuild by force, the once Imperial Russian Empire of old,

Dreaming of acquiring great power, conspiring to create a personal fortune in gold.

Now tens of thousands, have been killed, and Putin’s sending out, the plea for more,

To the next waves, of boy soldiers, youngsters bound, for his heartless grip on war.

Even though one day, Putin will surely feel, the full fury, of the Russian people’s scorn,

He has started buying his soldiers, from poor mothers, well before they’ve been born.

He is bribing the peasant mums, to sell, their unborn babies’ souls, for a poultry cost,

Yes, counting his boy soldiers, before they’ve dropped, knowing their lives are lost.

Before they leave, the safety of the womb, they’re the property, of his sinful state,

As children, their young minds, will be groomed, on false pretexts, and blind hate.

And the daughters, of the state, will be vessels used, to carry on, his reckless dreams,

Their sons, will in turn, become soldiers of the state, supplying the bloody streams.

In cold comfort, behind lavish palace walls, Putin warily watches, the valley of death,

Transforming, Ukraine’s yellow peace flowers, into medals of grief, leaving people bereft.

Now the blood of Satan, is on his hands, and the burden, the weight of all the dead,

He continues his quest, contented to wear, the sallow golden crown, upon his head.

With mounting shame, born upon his foul wind, and the bitterness he has brought,

Contented, with the withered fields, of dead yellow flowers, that he has wrought.

Its time, for the mothers of the world to unite, to sanctify, the young lives they bring,

To stand against, the surrogate sins of men, to safeguard their vulnerable offspring.

To protect kids’ lives, and the lore of life, to lay men’s pointless hatred in the past,

To create a better world for their children, and heed the call, to bravely stand fast.

Render Down unto Thee the Eternal Path You Take

 

Render Down unto Thee the Eternal Path You Take

Once true heroes, uttered with unpolluted breath, the solemn truth, so fervently sought,

Beyond the realm of lies, to eternity, where they escaped, the tangled web distraught.

Now with divine wisdom lost, so soundly resting, beneath the multitude, of stars each night,

It’s rigor’s long shadow cast, from the forgotten soldier’s stones, time weary, from life’s light.

Time now wrought, by wild seasons, and the passing sun, with celestial lines, daily lit between,

And the once promised, plot of land, now covered in wildflowers, and grasses really green.

Bones resting within the madness, where bodies have rendered down, destinies unforeseen,

Right there, where restless spirits fell, in gallant sacrifice, by selfless actions, seldom seen.

And many more hearts, were transformed, by the power of Satan, as Putin called for more,

With minds too blind to realise, the desire for more, was much less, when it came to war!

As their wills were wrought, by the turmoil in their hearts, in battles that couldn’t be won,

With souls scorched, in the fires of fury, then in anger, submitting to blind hatred overrun.

Never to repent, their ungodly sins, as goodness was lost, amongst the eternally damned,

And the lives they lost in vain, the blush of blood they shed, was roughly cast upon the land.

Departing from the trail of grief, that homeward bound, left their loved ones, in its wake,

Venturing onward, into the dark eternal path, that their lost spirits, were compelled to take.

In profound sadness, where tears turned to mist, on the river Acheron, aboard Hermes ship,

Forever lost, their souls never to return, to taste life’s steadfast love, sown upon a tender lip.