A bat, against the gibbous moon, Danced, implike, with its lone delight; The glowworm scrawled a golden rune Upon the dark; and, emerald-strewn, The firefly hung with lamps the night.

‘Russia Today’, he said, his finger marking each syllable with a thud on the table in front of us, ‘is psy-ops’—short for psychological operations. […] ‘It is run directly from the Kremlin. It's following Kremlin's narratives. It's a psy-ops operation. And it's black psy-ops.’

“Yes, there are two distinct sets of footprints, both wearing rubber shoes—one I think ordinary plimsolls, the other goloshes,” replied the sergeant.

Y'see, they’re just like us.