How Did Plutonia Become Putinia?

 

Tarta-rus, the legendary land,

residence of dark and cold,

domicile of fog and gloom,

 

there they say souls go to

for an endless fill in their cups

by dreary death and doom

 

and are allowed streaming in

by heartless sentinels in doors

but only as a hollow shade.

 

That’s how the Greeks dreamt

of the after-world and the Scythians,

of the boundless, vast expanse

 

where the ilk of Taras Bulba roams.

There all the sense and human joy

have been drained like blood

 

poured down on the greedy ground

or on Satan’s ice, Hell’s freezing loins.

There nothing is redeemed, and all is lost.

 

There pitiless and callous death feeds

like a cruel, incensed beast on its own

and binds its captives to despair void of hope.

 

For a fleeting moment only, it is claimed,

some death, fresh new blood, or sacrifice,

would let a modicum of life be mimed

 

with a pretense that makes the devils laugh.

There death itself is a giant gastral pit

unto which some grotesque, morbid whim

 

had sown a behemoth’s gorging, gaping mouth.

Even God, the Gods of good old culture, swear

they hate and skirt this uncanny and creepy habitat,

 

and if any of them should go down and show up there,

then only like a bitch or some deformed slimy slither.

The denizens forgot there to be kind and how to care

 

unless the fools choose to choose the same jester

to be their deathless czar in their Tartaristan

and whore and pimp up their nasty, brutish ride.

 

There what humans used to be is thurified

and kept as playthings in Hades’ private pan.

That’s how Putin is putting Mother Russia down.