White Russian


Poor pathetic me

I have barely stirred

From my dacha

In the birch-grove

on the endless steppes . . .

Misunderstood libation

The balalaikas mourn me

The Westerners despise me

The media hates me

I’m not Kahlúa enough

Too white for the woke

No one orders me

I’m worse than Hitler

(Not to mention Scorpion Bowl)

Must have been the quality

Of the vodka they

Put in.

write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about.

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