As church bells ring amidst smoke in the streets
The proud Maidan hails history and speaks
For the proles, the plebeians sleep beneath boots
Emblazoned with a gray card’nal brute
Endeared to the East with similar tongue
The Marionette seeks his strings playful tug
But a Punch be his bain – a straight from the west
The Vital proceeds – the Maidan may wrest.
To those in her square, black helmets do rain
Blackjacks lack compunction, mercy, restraint
Still there they persist – those born of Fatherland
Cutting the strings from the Iron Man’s hands
Alas! One day, may the west be union
And partake in the blessèd confusion
That arise when grips are lessened or lost
I pray my dear Maidan has considered the cost.