1

At the White House, the table’s set;
Trump sits with the Tsar, a deal in sight.
An oil pipeline’s on the napkin;
Beyond the glass: war, cold, and night.
Trump counts up the profits due;
Putin whispers, “Don’t rush through.”

I dreamed a strange and vivid dream:
A “Zircon” missile streaked toward Kyiv.
Oil for blood, and gas for bullets—
The gentlemen stayed wide awake.
Dollar by dollar, contract signed;
At the front, another act.
The bargaining goes on, profits grow;
The people pay in blood below.
They sign—the coins ring out;
Peace in words, but death in fact!

A barrel of oil, a barrel of blood;
Conscience sinks in the blackened mud.
Dollars to the Kremlin, missiles to homes—
Who’s the peacemaker? A businessman and the Tsar on the throne!

Uncle Donald’s building peace;
In his wallet, Ether grows.
The Russian Tsar makes grand designs—
Instead of peace, more lies and wounds.
“It’s business, all quite logical!”
The merchant tells the cameras, cool.
But oil can’t wash the blood away,
Nor silence death with coins of brass.

They carve up land, oil, and gas,
And even steal the toilet bowls.
“Peace is coming!” Trump proclaims;
The soldiers get a coffin and a contract.
“Life will soon be sweet as berries,
Summer in Sochi, cruising in a Lada”—
But somewhere, a mother weeps;
Her son will never make it home.

Oil for blood! A shameful ball!
War brings profit; peace is sold.
On death’s exchange, the fever burns.
Who divides the land and ore?
Dollar by dollar, palaces rise;
In the earth, the fighters lie.
Oil is black, just like their deeds;
Conscience died among the deals.

Behind closed doors, the trade goes on—
A bargain over life and death.
With indifferent eyes, they stare
Into the abyss beneath their feet.
And when the guns at last fall still,
The dreadful bill will come due.
No oil, no brandy, can save them then—
Time will judge them, every one.