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Hey, ladies, have I got
the deal for you!
You can have the nuke
of your choice*
today.
Just sign
on the line
to marry my bro.
He’s good-lookin’
religion pimpin’
blue-eyed dude-o,
likes sports,
rides bareback,
kicks ass in judo,
and he’s rolling
in dough.
He’s got jets galore
and castles (three or four),
and boats and dachas
up the wazoo
(dacha’s a country house
to you),
and lots of money
in lots of banks,
offshore,
lots of tanks,
and much, much more.
He owns some oil,
some gas and some soil.
stays close to home,
he doesn’t roam.
He won’t laugh
at your jokes,
though he might snicker.
Just don’t bicker,
if you know what’s good
for you—his ticker
will outlast yours.
Imagine the feeling—
a nuke you can call
your own,
Nothing beats a flashy gown
like a flashy rocket
streaking in the dawn.
Where it falls
is anyone’s guess,
but you’ll be safe
in the mess
of the Grand Ol’ Ural
bunker
as you hunker
miles below,
where the glow
can’t get you,
nibbling caviar,
sipping champagne
while the rest of the world
goes up in flames!
So, step right up and sign
on the dotted line.
You’ll be glad you did,
I promise.
I’ve done it myself.
* Conditions apply.
June 05, 2023
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