I am the last Napoleonic soldier. It's almost two hundred years later and I am still retreating from Moscow. The road is lined with white birch trees and the mud comes up to my knees. The one-eyed woman wants to sell me a chicken, and I don't even have any clothes on.
The Germans are going one way; I am going the other. The Russians are going still another way and waving good-by. I have a ceremonial saber. I use it to cut my hair, which is four feet long.
This is a so-called "prose poem" by current Poet Laureate Charles Simic.
I found the above link via Aaron Haspel's always fascinating "God of the Machine" blog. Make sure to visit and read his own version of a Simic "poem" - "Holiday in North Florida". The idea of satirical mimesis of this subject amuses me and I may construct a "Simic" of my own in short order (beyond the title of this post, of course).