Balkan, Baltic, Bolshevik, Bullshit.
tirade against the gaunt parade of gray.
(not on my watch, soldier)
hey Stalin, outfield would be good for you,
there is a dry crust of apple pie
rising in the dawn.
how do you take your motherhood?
(Marx this, this Marx well)
a hollow solitude in frozen grief.
do not count the sparrows,
they have flown to Thrace.
where else would they escape?
besides, Thrace is lovely in the spring.