Engels turns slowly, no grave is safe

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.