Comrade Ivan Speaks
(Moscow, 1968)
The Kommisars are irked at all this hair!
They want to pluck'em, shave 'em, cut and clip.
They're looking for a creamy upper lip,
Yul Brynner cue balls, skin that's smooth and bare.
In boiling vats we'll sizzle off the beard,
The ponytail, the hair that's five feet long,
Whatever gives offense. No country's strong
When everybody's hirsute and acting weird.
And the new thoughts? Smooth as a baby's face,
A sleeker math, a clean geometry,
Hairless parabolas from sea to sea.
A beardless logo for the soviet race.
Semitic types? Must check them at the gate.
We're after leanings, winks and wicked hints,
The furtive follicles of malcontents.
Unfettered hair will spoil an electorate.
That lunker on the bottom of the lake?
Clip him!--trawling for his Nietzchean crumb.
He may spout "love!" but he's basically a bum,
Drooling his tantras, a gnu-ru on the make.
Thus, we won't permit the stuff to grow.
Thus, will we snip: the hair has got to go! .
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