From Russia with Love

When Theresa May met Donald Trump,
he tried to hold her hand.
She kicked him, diplomatically
(which he didn’t understand).

He’d combed his hair, but her stony heart
was a wall he couldn’t scale.
He swigged his glass of Novichok
like any alpha male.

“This Champagne’s gotta…lotta fizz…”
he told her, eyes aflame.
“From Putin, Mr President
– so he’ll get all the blame…”

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