Vladimir Lenin's dreams

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch

looking outside my front door

seeing fucking clouds of war

and hearing screams

erupting from Vladimir Lenin's dreams

in which he said

Capitalism would be dead

and it would simply kill itself,

when i notice my empty kitchen shelf

with a deep layer of red dust

and the unpolished bust

of young Miss Liberty quietly reading the Communist Manifesto

by Engles and Marx

as the neighborhood mongrel barks,

reciting in perfect Chinese

"I'll bite you above the knees!"

so i grab a cigarette and my handy lighter,

take a deep drag off my typewriter,

and punch a few random keys

in a half-hearted effort to appease.

but i am dealing with a busted thumb,

an inability to satisfy the countless dumb,

and the comrades who are blind.

ain't life unkind,

one moment the door is open

and i'm writing the truth,

scratching an itch

and ain't it a bitch;

the new car is in a ditch

and i'm sweeping with the broom of a wicked witch.