Russian Patriotic Poetry Contest, January 2011

Ladies and Gentlemen, in honor of the New Year, has resurrected it’s sometimes monthly, mostly biannual (see: both definitions) Russian Patriotic Poetry Contest! And so, like a fish that’s been caught, cooked, then comes back to life in the middle of your chowder party, it returns!
So buckle your seatbelts. Just kidding, Volgas are notoriously unsafe vehicles, and when faced with a decision between installing seatbelts or hood ornaments of large breasted milk maids, they chose the latter. So duct tape yourself to the chigger infested seats, we’re going on a wild ride through the backroads of the Slavic Psyche.

A picture of our three lucky winners just before they enjoyed a complementary bush plane tour of several Latvian dairy farms, followed by a complementary lecture about Latvia’s farm subsidiary program. Left to Right: Aleksei Eltsov, Feodor Svilienko, Isaak Hvorotovsky

Third Place!

Aleksei Eltsov,
Bicep Sculptor, Daycare Analyst

Godless wasteland
Peppered by the footprints of mobsters and Jews
May your flowers wilt
May your rivers run red with blood
May the teeth of your peoples rain from their infected gums
May your many libidinous yaks find their fate in the path of an ice floe
May your churches, though false storefronts they be,
Find the shallow barrier between earth and hell
Not strong enough to hold the weight of their patron’s sin
I hope your clouds, cavorting in the sky like adulterers and conspirators,
surfeit themselves on the bitter water from the dirty lakes
That so many have pissed vodka into.
Yes, I am writing this from the Volgograd DMV, where I have been on line for two weeks trying to get a permit to use my goat as a commercial vehicle.
Also heads up the vending machine here is out of order because its monkey attendant has developed an unsightly mange.

Second Place!

Feodor Svilienko,
Distresser of American Jean Pants, Amateur Philanthropist

Why do you cry, little bird, little bird?
Why oh why do you cry?
For your mother, little bird, do you cry do you cry
For Mother Russia to sing you a lullaby
Mother Russia sings a lullaby
So Sweetly, so gently
Voice of an angel
Voice of the Virgin Mary
Only slightly marred by cigarettes
Lots and lots of soviet cigarettes
Which are just the lungs of coal miners
Wrapped up in conscription papers.

Second Place!

Isaak Hrovotovsky,
Private Garage Attendant, Sauce Peddler

Oh, Soviet Sauce Peddler
Peddle your sauces to me!
For my chickens so dry,
I will pay prettily.
For sauce enough to dampen
This chicken so dry
Chicken dry enough to make seem wet
My wife’s dust bowl vagina.


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