His clenched fist murders for the motherland;
In Aleppo Stalin squared strides from street to street,
Bringing horror to home and hospital,
Spilling schoolchildren’s blood into inkwells;
From his hawk’s beak the missiles strike,
Driving children into the street for the double-tap;
From Syrian children’s bones he builds his czar-nest;
His assassin’s smirk is like a Siberian winter;
His grinning face sits like a century of slaughter;
He is willing to pay any price for feeling big;
He steals the scent from the fresh flowers on the graves.
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