Oh, Boris dreamed of serving the land,
With a soldier’s grit and a statesman's hand.
He pictured himself with valour and might,
Saluting the flag at the dawn’s early light.

But just as he marched to answer the call,
He glimpsed a fine pay check—oh, how it was tall!
With dollar signs dancing right into his view,
And promises gleaming in greens and in blues.

"To serve," Boris mused, "would be noble and grand,
But have you seen what they pay in Finance Land?
A hero's cape or a CEO’s chair…
Is patriotism great? Sure. But bonuses are rare."

With one foot forward and one foot back,
He practised his speech in case he’d crack:
“To serve my country, I’m eager, no fear!
(But maybe just part-time… or once a year?)”

He imagined himself, medals shiny and bold,
But his bank account murmured, “We’re getting old.
The hero’s path—it's thrilling and tough,
But how 'bout a yacht? Or golf clubs? Or stuff?”

“Ah, Boris, what’s wrong?” his conscience would say,
But Boris just shrugged, waving cash its way.
“I love my country! My heart is true!
But cashmere suits, well… those are nice too.”

So here he remains, still torn and askew,
In love with his land—and his revenue too.
With one eye on glory, the other on gold,
A patriot, yes—but also sold.