Sorting Socks

We have a severe sock shortage,

and those don't match up in shape;

Two pairs of wellies are beyond repair,

and we are sick of all the wind and rain.

I hate the two armchairs in the living room,

but just can't seem to fix that space,

and the myth perseveres of Putin being a human, 

and descended from a Kyivian birthplace.

If they are one people, if his claim is true,

maybe it is for the Kyivians to choose or not to choose

to stretch their coat of arms in line with Moscow's view,

and make Ukrainians of the Russians, one people out of two.

They would be free to spend their time then, day to day,

sorting socks and buying wellies, hating armchairs;

running out of washing capsules, washing anyway,

being late for soccer training, ignoring all the ware;

paying for the car tax; the cat's next vaccination.

No time to spare to prepare for Russia's mad invasion.

Proxy

If it is a case of appointing a replacement,

I assure you, Mr. Filitov, that house won't be left vacant.

I have the perfect candidate, and he's just like you:

He likes the luxury of the lap, and takes more than he is due;

He sees no need to be effective, is not averse to transgression;

and, as long as he is unaffected, he'll consent to oppression.

Off you go now, Yuriy, leave the key under the mat,

and I'll install your proxy, my over-qualified cat.