I have some mad ideas, if this is one, then tell me, stop: What if Mr Putin and Her Maj just did a swap? The Kremlin could arrange for HM Queen some toast and tea No better boost for Poot’s ego than Platinum Jubilee.
There’d be far less destruction, less waste and damage done If Poots had been contented with a flypast (way more fun) Surely brings more pleasure, less dismay than threat of nukes To have a neat formation of some Spitfires and Chinooks.
Just think, the commentariat, instead of endless fawning Would just be glad that they had lived to see another morning No braying about duty, service, ‘ne’er puts wrong a foot’ Just celebrating that the world had not yet gone kaput.
Ukrainians would benefit, to have at Kremlin tiller One who favours selfless service, over being a killer Reckon they would celebrate and cheer and scream and clap A Kremlin head who wasn’t out to wipe them from the map.
For the Russians, it would surely be a welcome break From wondering, ’Is our leader mad?’ – to have some tea and cake A chance perhaps to soften, the world’s collective frown And take a cue from Lizzie, with her cheeky smile and crown.
Whatever could have happened, to Putin’s fluffy cat? You know the kind, that in a Bond film villain’s lap is sat That’s white and slightly sinister, which you’d imagine that If re-embodied human, would wear a posh cravat.
Did it find while lolling there, hand running through its fur That with the plans of Vladimir, it could no way concur Did it feel, on white cats everywhere they’d be a slur Which could some consequences, far from cat-friendly, incur?
In its ice-cool moggy heart, and in its brain feline Did it sense this Kremlin kid was badly out of line For a nicer Bond-ish villain did our friend now pine In point of fact, did Putin’s fluffy cat just flat resign?
Lent is with us now, but something else distracts and occupies Our hearts and minds, another land, where trauma bites, a small child cries An aerial bombardment, and sharp explosions fill the night A people underground, too scared to brave the grey of morning light While supermarket shelves see vital foodstuffs dwindle, fade away And desperate people seek enough to make it through another day A place of churches, homes and farms and factories, I little knew Its history till now, a place the world’s concern is pointed to A land of plains and golden spires and crosses carries now the scar Of brutal conflict, while a world looks on in horror from afar, But now the Lenten season makes me stop and wait and slow and pause And think, is any simmering conflict down to me, am I the cause? It urges me to strip back, change tack, take my cross, the desert way Examine what is flawed or wrong in what I think and do and say And take a cue from those whose faith sustains them in their hour of need And let it be for me a flame of hope, of courage fresh, a seed.