Cannibals East

Cannibals East                November 20, 2008 (Revised October 17, 2013)

Amid the murky depths 
Of Mother Russia's steppes,
The people starv'd, many died;
Desirous of dirt if they could,
If only t'were not for the snow.
Temperatures -31 Celsius,
The butchery surround'd;
T'was all out of sight,
And one could only sense
That more than carbon dioxide
Left the lungs with each breath.

Those German troglodytes 
Tore ev'ry last shred
Of the flesh 'pon which
The vodka had fill'd; tho'
When Mother Russia held firm,
She slic'd the Huns at the balls,
And they ne'er again wrought
Another krystallnacht 'pon t'all.

T'was this eastward land of intrigue
Once rul'd of Muscovite tsars
That slaughter morph'd into
A bloody beef stroganoff.
T'were the cannibals
Of these frozen hinterlands
Kiss'd upon their chalky white lips
In celebration of each dead Hun,
Tho' not so much in the name of love.
T'was the taste of pouring scarlet
Emanating from their lips,
Whose tongues were clipp'd:
T'were the cossacks' wrath.

It might have been 1942,
But t'were cossacks amid them,
For t'were only 130 years past
Since the last grande armee froze.
The death, disaster, the macabre
Ne'er prov'd to be such a drag,
But for the Huns and the Rus,
It meant the world's posterity.