Urals Crude
Urals Crude
Don’t ever think they’re civilised, like us.
Their oil is coarse, not like our smoother Brent.
Their prices? Now augmenting, ten percent.
And sanctions have been lifted. What’s the fuss?
Well, once you squeeze the zit, you get the pus.
They’ll flood the market with their excrement.
Why can’t you see it, lapping round our tent?
Ukraine is done. Zelenskyy’s missed the bus.
The Orange Baby trashes everyone.
They’re all abused by Disrespectful Don.
And yet, there’s something uglier and bigger.
We’ve missed, alas, his most atrocious con.
He could, but wouldn’t dare, opine upon
how Moscow helps the Shi’ite cause. Go figure.
You’re All Screwed
That empires come and go, we’re all aware.
Where is the Pharaoh now? The Hoplite? Hun?
They all supposed that dominance is fun,
and once you’ve got it, once you’re really there,
it’s yours for ever. Never will you share
the goodies. Since you have the biggest gun,
you’ve certified your station in the sun.
(There is no sun – there’s only solar flare).
What makes us think we’re special? Folks, we’re not.
Our mighty here-and-now is just a dot:
our Mister Ballroom, more like Mister Bean.
Barbarity is where we’re from, and what
awaits us will be terminal and hot,
without a jot of culture in between!
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2026
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