He steers the listing ship of state
With blinded, bulging eyes
And gaping, rancid lips.
The more he fails, the more he flails,
No big surprise he screams and wails;
With jiggling, wriggling hips.
A fool, a lout, who loves to pout.
With every breath he lies;
With every order tries
To kill another thousand souls.
For those are Pappa Putin’s goals.
He’s one of Moscow’s favorite moles.
He kills for rubles? Lack of scruples?
I don’t care. Do you? Or you?
And once the toll quadruples?
We finally call a fraud a fraud
And oust the ruthless prig?
And throw him in the brig?
It’ll make poor Vlad both sad & blue.
But I won’t care? Will you? Or, you?