The Invasion
The invasion has begun.
In the distance,I hear the rattle of heavy artillery.
Silage trailers,as they thunder along pock-marked country roads.
Young conscripts,barely legal,battling with the controls of a modern day,
monster tractor.
Happy as the day is long,
they tick tok around the clock,
Posting updates and images of the work in progress
to their army of followers.
They'll be starving by lunch time.
Putins' long white table would seat a platoon of men,
In for the dinner,
On a break from gathering potatoes, building a stack of hay or toiling at a dusty thrasher.
But my mother would barely have a table cloth long enough
for Putins' table.
To cover the blood stains, from the flesh
dripping slowly from the the meat grinder.
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