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.