I'd now perhaps recommend https://www.cato.org/commentary/ukraines-memory-wars for something deeper. It's actually by Cathy Young, if you remember her (Aiplay etc).

(DONT TRIGGER IMP)

I led a bandit out to shoot her. She didn’t plead with me to spare her. In pain, she bit her kerchief mutely And glared at me with pride and anger.

And then she told me, “Listen, laddie, I know I’m gonna get the bullet; So let me now, before you waste me, At my Ukraine gaze to the fullest.

At my Ukraine, where horses gallop Under Bandera’s mighty banner; Ukraine, where folks are hiding weapons, And search for faith, and care for honor.

Where we have got green moonshine boiling In whitewashed huts under the blue skies; Where we’ve got sawed‐​off shotguns poking Against the heads of drunken Russkies.

For nomads, time to go marauding, For Russian women, to start weeping! Russkies or Krauts, you are not wanted, And of our bread enough you’ve eaten!

On Ukraine’s lard you will not fatten, Our vodka, thieves, you will not guzzle. Our history is not yet written, And Russia’s scribes won’t keep it muzzled.

There riding through the fields goes Bulbash, His bridle like coin bracelets jangles; Let commies back in Mother Russia Do as they like and freedom strangle.

Collective farming is is their setup To feed the lazy and the sloppy; Here, we don’t care which one is better, NKVD or the Gestapo.”

I'd now perhaps recommend https://www.cato.org/commentary/ukraines-memory-wars for something deeper. It's actually by Cathy Young, if you remember her (Aiplay etc).

(DONT TRIGGER IMP)

I led a bandit out to shoot her. She didn’t plead with me to spare her. In pain, she bit her kerchief mutely And glared at me with pride and anger.

And then she told me, “Listen, laddie, I know I’m gonna get the bullet; So let me now, before you waste me, At my Ukraine gaze to the fullest.

At my Ukraine, where horses gallop Under Bandera’s mighty banner; Ukraine, where folks are hiding weapons, And search for faith, and care for honor.

Where we have got green moonshine boiling In whitewashed huts under the blue skies; Where we’ve got sawed‐​off shotguns poking Against the heads of drunken Russkies.

For nomads, time to go marauding, For Russian women, to start weeping! Russkies or Krauts, you are not wanted, And of our bread enough you’ve eaten!

On Ukraine’s lard you will not fatten, Our vodka, thieves, you will not guzzle. Our history is not yet written, And Russia’s scribes won’t keep it muzzled.

There riding through the fields goes Bulbash, His bridle like coin bracelets jangles; Let commies back in Mother Russia Do as they like and freedom strangle.

Collective farming is is their setup To feed the lazy and the sloppy; Here, we don’t care which one is better, NKVD or the Gestapo.”

“Keep walking and shut up,” I told her. “You’ll get what you deserve, you vermin. Last night, my friend and fellow soldier Without a sound you knifed and murdered.

There’s plenty of your kind all over But few like him, who died so early. Croak in the ditch where I will drop you, There will be no tribunal for you.”

Then we walked on. Birds shrieked and hooted. The fields around were wild and barren. I led a bandit out to shoot her; She didn’t plead with me to spare her.

I'd now perhaps recommend https://www.cato.org/commentary/ukraines-memory-wars for something deeper. It's actually by Cathy Young, if you remember her (Aiplay etc).

(DONT TRIGGER IMP)

I led a bandit out to shoot her. She didn’t plead with me to spare her. In pain, she bit her kerchief mutely And glared at me with pride and anger.

And then she told me, “Listen, laddie, I know I’m gonna get the bullet; So let me now, before you waste me, At my Ukraine gaze to the fullest.

At my Ukraine, where horses gallop Under Bandera’s mighty banner; Ukraine, where folks are hiding weapons, And search for faith, and care for honor.

Where we have got green moonshine boiling In whitewashed huts under the blue skies; Where we’ve got sawed‐​off shotguns poking Against the heads of drunken Russkies.

For nomads, time to go marauding, For Russian women, to start weeping! Russkies or Krauts, you are not wanted, And of our bread enough you’ve eaten!

On Ukraine’s lard you will not fatten, Our vodka, thieves, you will not guzzle. Our history is not yet written, And Russia’s scribes won’t keep it muzzled.

There riding through the fields goes Bulbash, His bridle like coin bracelets jangles; Let commies back in Mother Russia Do as they like and freedom strangle.

Collective farming is is their setup To feed the lazy and the sloppy; Here, we don’t care which one is better, NKVD or the Gestapo.”

“Keep walking and shut up,” I told her. “You’ll get what you deserve, you vermin. Last night, my friend and fellow soldier Without a sound you knifed and murdered.

There’s plenty of your kind all over But few like him, who died so early. Croak in the ditch where I will drop you, There will be no tribunal for you.”

Then we walked on. Birds shrieked and hooted. The fields around were wild and barren. I led a bandit out to shoot her; She didn’t plead with me to spare her.

I'd now perhaps recommend https://www.cato.org/commentary/ukraines-memory-wars for something deeper.

(DONT TRIGGER IMP)

I led a bandit out to shoot her. She didn’t plead with me to spare her. In pain, she bit her kerchief mutely And glared at me with pride and anger.

And then she told me, “Listen, laddie, I know I’m gonna get the bullet; So let me now, before you waste me, At my Ukraine gaze to the fullest.

At my Ukraine, where horses gallop Under Bandera’s mighty banner; Ukraine, where folks are hiding weapons, And search for faith, and care for honor.

Where we have got green moonshine boiling In whitewashed huts under the blue skies; Where we’ve got sawed‐​off shotguns poking Against the heads of drunken Russkies.

For nomads, time to go marauding, For Russian women, to start weeping! Russkies or Krauts, you are not wanted, And of our bread enough you’ve eaten!

On Ukraine’s lard you will not fatten, Our vodka, thieves, you will not guzzle. Our history is not yet written, And Russia’s scribes won’t keep it muzzled.

There riding through the fields goes Bulbash, His bridle like coin bracelets jangles; Let commies back in Mother Russia Do as they like and freedom strangle.

Collective farming is is their setup To feed the lazy and the sloppy; Here, we don’t care which one is better, NKVD or the Gestapo.”

“Keep walking and shut up,” I told her. “You’ll get what you deserve, you vermin. Last night, my friend and fellow soldier Without a sound you knifed and murdered.

There’s plenty of your kind all over But few like him, who died so early. Croak in the ditch where I will drop you, There will be no tribunal for you.”

Then we walked on. Birds shrieked and hooted. The fields around were wild and barren. I led a bandit out to shoot her; She didn’t plead with me to spare her.