A Mystery to Me

 

 

 

His head resisted my hand

Pretty nigh a dozen times,

How dare he be so impertinent

Kept nagging at my mind.

 

This made me more determined

To knock his head clean off

But his neck was so strong

It kept his head aloft.

 

I cannot at present recall

The reason for my obsession

But to obliterate his head

Was my consuming passion.

 

And so, time and time again

His head would but up on my hand

And every time it resisted

The more I revised my plan.

 

This was a mystery to me

For he was much smaller than I

And what made it even worse,

He would always cry.

 

They viewed him as the victim

But the victim was really me,

How they miss this obvious fact

Increased my mystery.

 

 

Every time I slapped his head

My hand would actually sting

And the harder that I struck him

The more pain it would bring.

 

My aim was to change all this

And solve my mystery

But to my more sore displeasure

I was labeled a bully.

 

However I viewed this matter,

I saw me as the victim

But those unaware of my discomfort

Viewed me as the villain.

 

How very unfortunate for me!

My mystery only grew

And my desire to de-mystify it

Was determinedly renewed.

 

 

Call me Russia, if you will,

It is Ukraine that stings my hand,

I want it to be a satellite

And I must get on with my plan.

 

 

Does it not know its benefactor?

And the mutual things we share?

And the more it resists my chastening

The more I will have to bear?

 

Please see my side of the fracas:

I am really the victim,

It is truly a mystery to me

That you see me as the villain.

 

Hence, the analogy I brought:

Ukraine’s head and my hand,

I should feel nothing when I slap her,

To de-mystify this is my plan.

 

Her resistance is my pain,

You’d have to experience it to know,

So, back, off all you ignorant allies!

On with my plan I go!

 

Stewart Russell © February 26, 2022