little Putin

little Putin went to bed
with a roll of fat
and a sweet blonde blow-up-doll;
he had burger crumbs on his white shorts
with a tiny wiggle worm hidden inside,
waiting for his absent bride.
in a distant room,
she wore a coat which didn't care
how her husband combed his hair
or tanned his face.
he often said
buried deep inside his head
was pure genius
for global leadership
but only fawning types
playing cheap bagpipes
believed that tune,
and she had no desire
to stroke his fire.
he loved his pressed pants too big
while his orange wig
curled past his ears,
alert for any
random cheers,
regardless from where they might arise
in the early hours before sunrise.
and when the lights turned really low,
he felt his memory grow,
the TV signal become weak,
as he dared one more foxy peek,
but his wife never appeared,
although he thought often of dating his own daughter.

so incredibly weird!