After seven months on, we still haven't a clue
Of who's winning this war, of who's beating who.
One side says a pillow fight Russians would lose:
No logistics no gumption, red-army blues,
The other says look at their chunk of Ukraine,
Which must give Zelensky a biting migraine.
.
Despite all the news, we are still in the dark,
With half-busted buildings the only thing stark.
Yes, it's true one expected from Russia more:
The drive and sacrifice of yesteryear lore.
Putin may want to keep damage suitable,
Whatever his plan, it's truly inscrutable.
.
With Ukies, what gives? Haven't they had enough?
Settle, would they, for a new country cut rough?
Sad interviews with the-man-in-the-(bombed)-street
Really don't tell us if they're feeling beat.
Surely they're tiring of being the Yanks' sword,
But reporters say not what Ukies lean toward.
.
It's a black-hole war, little light getting out,
Where false-flag artists do brisk business in doubt.
Here a town's taken and next week taken back,
There wallow ten tanks, destroyed in their track,
The Ukes lose thirty and the Russkies twelve more,
And still we don't know what's really the score.
.
Nor will we know till this comes down the back stretch,
When one side starts to rally and the other to retch
And takes out its anthrax or dusts off its nukes,
And starts putting up truly serious dukes.
It'll come as surprise for we simply don't know
Who's getting ahead or which way the winds blow.
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