Putin the Gangster
In the shadows of the Kremlin, where the cold winds bite,
A man stands tall, casting fear in the night.
With a poker face, cold as Siberian snow,
He plays the game, where only the strong will grow.
No crown, no throne, but a power supreme,
Behind iron curtains, in the halls of a dream.
He moves like a shadow, with the heart of a king,
A gangster in a suit, pulling every string.
Whispers of deals in the underground glow,
The oligarchs bend low, and the soldiers row.
With a smirk, he decides what’s won and lost,
A chessboard of nations, at any cost.
A deal with the devil? Maybe just a plan,
A mind sharp as knives, but still a man.
He’s Putin the Gangster, in a world of sin,
A man of steel will, yet no soul within.
With a fist wrapped in velvet, and words laced with lies,
He smiles as his empire slowly dies.
For in his eyes, there’s a cold, silent reign,
A gangster’s paradise, built on pain.