Upon a treacherous morn in Rostov's fair lands,
The fieful troops of Wagner, their presence expands,
But lo! stout-hearted Putin, unyielding doth stand,
And cries for their swift downfall; treason at hand.

In dismal chains, a lost soul seeks liberty,
For freedom, he wagers, and Ukraine the key,
In bloody battle, he strives for those vast rewards,
Yet vengeful specters foreclose his grim charade.

Within the shrouded halls of a war company,
Wagner, the fearful name, a dark font of treachery,
Yon Prigozhin's hand, rich in gold and diamonds' lore,
The furtive tendrils of the Kremlin doth evermore.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur