Ivan was a Russian, or at least that's what he said,

personally, I didn't think that he was all that red,

sure, his drink was vodka, but then so is many guys,

something in his stories made me think of little lies.

Born in Stalingrad, he said, and schooled in Kazakhstan,

ran away at seventeen and joined a gypsy clan,

traveled through the Orient, and learned to hide his past,

practiced throwing knives, and soon was accurate and fast.

Met a Chinese Princess (and they fell in love, of course)

soon could handle chopsticks and appreciate soy sauce,

asked her Father for her hand, the Emperor of all,

Daddy shook his head and put him up against the wall.

Ready aim and fire were the orders to the squad,

then a Shinto priest asked him if he believed in God,

"Da" replied the Russian, and the crowd all cried with glee,

Christian guys could not be killed, and Ivan was set free.

Back inside the castle, Ivan fronted his fair maid,

he'd been gone for seven hours, love doth quickly fade,

she'd been in a chat room on the net and met a man,

Danté owned a red Ferrari - and half of Japan!

This sad news inflicted him a sad and evil dose,

love and manic sanity are really fairly close,

Ivan pulled his throwing knife and looked her in the eye,

asked her if she meant it, if this really was goodbye.

"Yes I love Italian food, and you won't understand"

Ivan growled an oath and felt the sharp knife in his hand,

aimed it like a gypsy and then threw it, straight and clean,

deep into the heart of her corrupt computer screen.

After all the heat died down he hopped it to the Sates,

met me in an L.A. bar, and now we're closest mates,

sometimes, after nineteen drinks, his accent goes away,

Ivan - Russian? I'll bet you a Bud he's C.I.A!

 more of my FUNNY POEMS here