The ophthalmologist picked up and fled
with just his credit cards, and trophy wife.
He'd watched Qaddafi hunted, beaten, dead...
and leapt to barter honor for his life.
The heir apparent jousted with a truck;
mismatching masses, vast momentum won.
Succession settled on one day's bad luck
this chinless understudy for a son.
In Moscow, worn out puppets cool their heels
they polish Putin's boots, and sing his praise.
Re'ssuring him the people's love is real
as if they're wistful for tzar Ivan's days.
An empire in decline can't shield its friends;
nobody has a clue how all this ends.
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