Rather than go squawking about the Ukraine,
I'd prefer to concentrate on the great pain
Foisted on me by the Cyclops who covers
The war there like an assault on his lovers,
Indignant, empathetic, a tear in eye,
In the hope he'll get from viewers a cry.
.
He won't cover Russians lest one might recount
How hard it was leaving his wife to surmount,
Or how dreary the winter in his cold tank,
How awful to fire on the Ukies' left flank.
He'd joined to defend against Germans and Yanks,
Not destroy his brothers, for which there's no thanks.
.
No, that story's out, the much funner to blab
With some slate-blue suit or a colonel in drab
'Bout changing fronts and resistance heroic,
The filling of sandbags and volunteers stoic,
Here Mom with three toddlers and Grandma share food,
There soldiers dig trenches amidst tragic mood.
.
Putin's war, Putin's soldiers, Putin's airplane,
That horrible name spat again and again,
He's icky, Grinchy, knows nothing but power,
A man so crooked he'd not tell you the hour,
And if he told you, you'd do well to check twice,
Since you from your meeting he's trying to slice.
.
Strategy and drama from midnight till noon,
With Russia's viewpoint the dark side of the moon,
Which none dare explore lest big bosses object,
And the reporter's career's so quickly wrecked,
Nor will they compare with invaded Iraq,
Their one eye on Ukraine, which neocons back.
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