Whenever on a trip to Vladivostok
I like to sip vodka in a comfy tavern
just down the street from my hotel.
For a small tip the waiter ushers me
to a booth in view of the television
and there I catch up on local events
Tonight though the place is packed
with joyous patrons, some prancing
cossack-style upon the sturdy tables,
others hugging they care not whom.
What is happening? I yell in broken
russian. Bahkmut is fallen! they reply
Though like tolstoy largely a pacifist
I’m not one to shirk a good carouse
and that night I quaffed many toasts
to the brave lads who comb the city
for hidden snipers and hot tripwires,
singing loud their praises till sunrise
Why would a proud canuck do that?
To the strains of a vintage balalaika
I explain to my newfound comrades
that shame drove me hither and yon,
seeking lands where empire fumbles,
victory songs heard in other tongues