Lucubrated wrinkles cracked his looks,
Geometry’s jugular, he clutched in a vice grip,
And a crowd of tongues sprung from his lips,
Yet frayed linen embraced his lean frame,
As he squeezed little bread from his great name.
Patriotism died, he fled the Motherland,
Now strangers drink the soup of his hands.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.