There once was a Soviet man,

As red as Reds could be.

He prayed each night at Lenin's grave

Most happy to be "free".

He contented himself to write

With only the purest hand.

Always careful not to offend

Those pricks of High Command.

He assured himself all was right,

But his heart said, "Not so!"

"Words held by chains aren't truly free.

You write, but you don't know!"

The Soviet scoffed at the warning,

Entrenched too deep to see.

His mind was an Iron Curtain,

Free from all liberty.

"Away, my evil heart!" he cried,

"The bonds on my hands stay.

If a Soviet shows a hint of self,

His mind will lose the way."

So he wrote with his hands in chains,

Lauding the works of Marx.

Until the day when reason came,

The day that broke his heart.