Never mind the wounded,

Never mind the dead;

Shake hands with the cheeky chap

And pat his shiny head.

 

Never mind the blood

That’s dripping from his hands;

Kneel right down and grovel

In front of where he stands.

 

The cheeky chap is on a roll;

The BRICs are dancing to his tune.

A warrant waits for his arrest,

But might as well be on the moon:

 

For there will be a banquet,

With merriment and song,

Where no one tells the cheeky chap

All that he has done wrong.

 

He’s up on his hind legs now,

Expounding his world view;

The slaughter goes on in Ukraine,

But who dares say? Not you.