By
You will hear thunder and remember me And think: she wanted storms.
The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you my Mr Putin
With egg on your head
Blood on your hands
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