Mr. Viktor

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Let me tell you of a man, Mr. Viktor by the name,

A fifty-three-year-old marvel (though he'll give a different claim).
He'll shave off years or add them on depending on the fight,
"You're all just children!" he'll declare, especially late at night.

His eyes don't see the sunshine, but his mouth is always bright,
Spilling tales with the confidence of a solar flair at night.
He said he was a soldier, claimed he was a cop,
A helicopter repairman- though he's never seen the top.

He alleged he made his millions, before his voice could break,
He alleged he sent his siblings abroad for goodness sake!
Every niece and every nephew, flown out to pastures green,
Though they all live down the street - but please, don't interrupt the scene!

He speaks of Prague and Paris like a man who's been and seen,
A global sage who's never left, if you know what I mean.
He fabricated a Russian love, a romance hot and spicy,
A daughter now of thirty-two - but Viktor? Never daddy, just slightly.

He loves his drink, our Viktor, but a word to the wise and true:
Bottle one is fine, bottle two is fun, but bottle three? He's through.
The switch is flipped, the beast emerges, aggression is his tongue,
A blind man ready for a fight with anyone, old or young.

He'll smash a bottle on the ground, a lout without a sight,
He'll wave a knife like an assassin, a truly frightening sight.
He'll poke and prod and push and shove, a provocator proud,
Until you finally snap - and then he'll say it nice and loud:

"You would strike a handicapped man? A blind soul such as me?
You would oppress the disabled? Shame! How cruel can you be!"
He plays the sympathy card hard, he's practiced it for years,
He milks it for all that it's worth, to camouflage his gears.

People help him, people pity, people offer him a hand,
And Viktor thanks them kindly - by becoming a one-man band
Of mischief, tricks, and attitude, a repayment scheme so odd,
He turns compassion into chaos, and he does it like a god.

So let this be a lesson, written plainly on this slate:
A disability's no promise that a person will be great.
They can be just as messy, just as wild, just as fake,
They can lie just like a villain in a chocolate cake.



Mr. Viktor, blind and brilliant, full of liquor, full of lore,
A masterpiece of mayhem, and he's always wanting more.
He lies like the sun shines - assured, without a care,
A reminder that a saint's halo isn't something disabled people wear.
His children exist only in the country of his mind,
His millions just a melody, his siblings left behind.
He's never fixed a helicopter, never worn a badge or gun,
But in the art of telling whoppers? Mr. Viktor? Second to none.

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