Harry Graham (25)

Ein historisches Gedicht aus »Baby's Baedeker« (1902):

Harry Graham: Russia

The Russian Empire, as you see, 

    Is governed by an Autocrat,  

A sort of human target he  

   For anarchists to practise at;  

And much relieved most people are  

Not to be lodging with the Czar.

 

The Russian lets his whiskers grow,  

   Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and  

Imbibes more ›vodki‹ than ›il faut‹; 

   A habit which (I understand)  

Enables him with ease to tell  

His name, which nobody could spell.

The climate here is cold, with snow,  

   And you go driving in a sleigh,  

With bells and all the rest, you know,  

   Just like a Henry Irving play;  

While, all around you, glare the eyes 

Of secret officers and spies!

 

The Russian prisons have no drains,  

   No windows or such things as that;  

You have no playthings there but chains, 

   And no companion but a rat;  

When once behind the dungeon door,  

Your friends don't see you any more.

 

I further could enlarge, 'tis true,  

   But fear my trembling pen confines; 

I have no wish to travel to  

   Siberia and work the mines. 

(In Russia you must write with care, 

Or the police will take you there.)

 

Moral:

If you hold morbid views about
   A monarch's premature decease,  
You only need a — Hi! Look out!  
   Here comes an agent of police!
      *        *       *       *                      
(In future my address will be
›Siberia, Cell 63.‹)