Never ending bombardment
Started an hour prior
To our surprise embarkment
Our lines a bright pyre
The order went and came
Over the top we go
To win the Fuhrer’s fame
Pain we would know
We met them immediately
Tank to tank, hand to hand
We fought them obediently
Fighting for the Fatherland
Outnumbered 3 to 1
Our lead tank hit
I got out grabbed my gun
Then our tank spit
Petrol pouring
Covering my ears
The explosion roaring
Counting my years
Into the grass
Our tank burning
My feet did a chasse
My heart yearning
The Russians are devils, and coming
My friends with pace, leaving
“He can’t be saved” they’re saying
I look down my body… grieving
Categories:
kursk, anxiety, betrayal, death, patriotic,
Form: Ballad
Though Canton claims it’s communist, it’s not.
Beijing, like Belarus, breeds oligarchs.
There’s nobody alive who’s heard of Marx:
a rickshaw ride’s the only kind of trot.
Seek Mensheviks in Minsk, you’ll end with squat.
In Kursk are cadres countable as quarks,
and proles in Petrograd? Like hunting snarks.
It’s Putin’s perestroika, not Pol Pot.
Why did the whole thing vanish in thin air?
Why’s Sputnik spat on? Why is red so square?
We needn’t be complacent in the West.
There’s lots to learn within the Warsaw Waltz
for, as a tool to scrutinise the faults
of Christian Capital Conquest, it’s the best!
Categories:
kursk, satire,
Form: Sonnet