Droplets of Verse: ‘Blue and Yellow Flags Fluttering’

Blue and Yellow Flags fluttering
Helicopters hovering
Armed men with honest faces
Defending their land

Armoured trucks at a checkpoint
Arrived to calm eastern unrest
No threats of gratuitous violence
The target: to clear out the terrorists

Every step they take
Is a breath of fresh air
In a corner of Ukraine corrupted
By spies and provocateurs

These are not acts of war
Purely manouevres in self defence
When the invaders are finally gone
The flag will fly from every mast

Droplets of Verse: ‘A Mother’s Dream – A Meeting with Viktor Yanukovich’

A cafe somewhere in Crimea, Yanukovich sitting opposite, without even a cup of tea or coffee.
I said to him, ‘What have you done? This place, Crimea, doesn’t belong to Russia. It never did. The Tatars were here first. Even so, when it was part of Ukraine, there was no problem – no one complained. Now look. Businesses are closing down, and their owners leaving. Most Ukrainians have gone, over to the mainland. What do we have left? Russian soldiers murdering Ukrainian ones. Young Tatars beaten up by Russians, just for speaking their own language, while calling their friends on mobile phones. But you don’t care! You stole a truckload of diamonds, and billions of Hrivnia, made yourself a very rich man. But don’t worry, Ukraine will retrieve all the money you took. Perhaps we can use it to pay our gas bill. Anyway, you say you’re still President of Ukraine, but how can you be when you’re not even there?’
Yanukovich’s head wobbles side to side, and then up and down. He says nothing, then gets up and leaves.

Droplets of Verse: ‘Colorado Beetles’

Colorado beetles exchange ironclad alibis
Swap stories, float lies across skyscraper skies
Gazprom turn gas taps off slowly
Smiling, delivering threats elegantly
An outstanding gas bill is yet to be paid
Troops patrol borders ready to launch raids
Mockingly dismiss Ukrainian leaders as ‘egghead nazis’
Russia is so dishonest, it can’t even recognise its own nastiness

Droplets of Verse: ’24 Hour Global Armchair Helpline’

Welcome to the 24 Hour Global Armchair Helpline!

Press 1: If your armchair is so comfortable you always fall asleep while watching television. Our advisors can assist you in developing strategies to resolve excessive comfort issues

Press 2: If sitting in your armchair turns you into a screaming lunatic when watching news broadcasts on television. Our trained nurse will discuss medication options with you

Press 3: If the castors on your armchair make you seasick. Our trained advisors will assist in navigating you through your nausea

All calls are recorded for training purposes and for resale to MI5 and other spy networks
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Droplets of Verse: ’24 Hour Global Ballpoint Pen Helpline’

Welcome to the 24 Hour Global Ballpoint Pen Helpline!

Press 1: If you have a bad leak and a crisp white shirt ruined by ink stains. Our advisors can put things in perspective for you until you see that everything is not as blue as it seems

Press 2: If you have a ball point pen that will not work. Our highly trained technicians will complete a phone assisted distance repair schedule with you. This can be a lengthy process. You may even be late for work, so get the kettle on

Press 3: If you cannot find your favourite ballpoint pen. Our advisors are highly skilled operatives trained to provide an extensive and thorough ‘retrace your steps’ phone service at no extra cost

All calls are recorded for training purposes and for resale to MI5 and other spy networks
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Droplets of Verse: ’24 Hour Global Party Helpline’

Welcome to the 24 Hour Global Party Helpline!

Press 1: If you have no idea which party to vote for in the forthcoming elections

Press 2: If you know which party you will vote for, but have a nagging doubt they know nothing whatsoever about you and your life

Press 3: If you are worried the party will consist of flat lemonade, mouldy cheese on broken cocktail sticks, sandwiches with curled up corners and flaky pastry trodden into your best shag pile

All calls are recorded for training purposes and for resale to MI5 and other spy networks

 

Droplets of Verse: ‘Crimea Belongs to Ukraine’

Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Not to the men from Moscow
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Not in Putin’s property portfolio
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Not in the pocket of Russia
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
All its palaces, houses and dachas
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Every stone, every drop of water
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
To its sailors and submariners
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Every centimetre of its land
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Every single grain of sand
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
Not to its thieving neighbour
Crimea belongs to Ukraine
That peninsula’s future saviour

Droplets of Verse: ‘Mr Pickering – The Axeman Cometh’

Mr Pickering lost his job at the Ministry of Defence
For indulging in far too much bickering
But years ago, he bought an axe head, to chop down a tree
Fitting it to a wooden handle was another thing
He made himself at home in a gloomy garage
Didn’t even stop for a cup of tea, or a dump
He chiselled away, but his tool was way too blunt
Progress was slow,  Axeman stared at the reluctant stump

Maybe learning to play the guitar
Would have been a realistic alternative
Definitely would have been quicker
The damn wooden handle simply wouldn’t give
Mr Pickering held onto the patience of a saint
And hoped his prayers would be answered
The stubborn nature of that wooden handle
Reminded him of a tough old, angry bird

His belief remained intact, soon the blade would fly
Axeman would enter the garden, a gladiator
Head of axe snug and tight, welded to the handle
Axeman visualised swinging his instrument, playing a mean air guitar
He’d serenade the flowers, play solos to the shrubs
Before destroying a completely innocent tree
A desecration, a brutal betrayal of Mother Nature
Thankfully, fate decreed it wasn’t meant to be

Oh how that lonely axe head ached!
For the handle to fill its hole
To be an instrument capable of raucous air guitar
To swing along the breeze, a slice of rock and roll
Hours passed by, in that slowest of executions
Feverishly, Mr Pickering dreamt of catching beaver
To work that killing field for him
Just then, it occurred to him to pursue a different career

 

 

 

Droplets of Verse: ‘A Political Scam’

Stale air lingers inside the air vent
Making a bad smell, noxious, unrelenting
Pieces of paper are marked with a cross
Carefully folded, then dropped into a wooden box

Commanders claim victory before the count even commences
Statistics are quoted before they come into existence
Percentages piled high, correctness corroded into a corpse
A swift execution, no need to wait for official reports

Papers stacked on a desk, a mathematician’s mountain
Heads bent down, furious fingers, creative accounting
A number is thought of, a fairly random approximation
Big enough to justify adding new territory to a nation

Results are announced with almost indecent haste
The leader of the land lets a smile crawl onto his face
History’s hourglass tilts, boundaries shift, stolen sand
The people have voted to be part of the Motherland

According to the records, a majority of 93 percent
Got caught, gave their land away as a present
Then the calculations are exposed as a sham
123 percent said yes, in a rigged vote, a political scam