Ballad of the Phallobomb

Made from German engineering, ripe for destroying Slavic fields,
The mighty Phallobomb approaches, with a thrust no shield can yield.

Verse 1:
Forged in Bavarian workshops with precision and with pride,
The Phallobomb was crafted to thunder and to glide.
No mere weapon of war or simple tool of might,
But a phallic missile of chaos, blazing through the night.

Chorus:
Oh, Phallobomb, you rip through rye and beet,
Your length and girth bring Slavs to defeat.
No cabbage patch, no humble hut,
Can withstand your furious rut!

Verse 2:
From Saxon hills to Silesian plains, the tales are told anew,
Of fields laid bare, and farmers’ wives bewitched by your debut.
Where once was calm and quiet, now echoes a primal call,
As the German engineered marvel overwhelms them all.

Chorus:
Oh, Phallobomb, you rip through rye and beet,
Your length and girth bring Slavs to defeat.
No cabbage patch, no humble hut,
Can withstand your furious rut!

Bridge:
But listen close and hear the truth beneath the lust and lore—
It’s but a tale of rivalry, absurdity at core.
For though the Phallobomb may claim its “glorious” place,
It’s all in jest, a silly dance, a bawdy farce.

Final Chorus:
Oh, Phallobomb, you rip through rye and beet,
Your length and girth bring Slavs to defeat.
No cabbage patch, no humble hut,
Can withstand your furious rut!