You gave your name to cruelty,
To slow and painful end of life,
No, not starvation, dehydration,
Call it anything instead.
And now you’re going to die yourself,
And death for you shall also be
A euphemistic type affair,
You’ll think of it as number three,
And being red, not being dead.
How fitting such an end might seem
To those who’d teach you not to dream
Of Socialism’s saving grace
But have you look square in the face
At honest trade or dodgy scheme,
Which lies and twists, and which pretends
It needs no magic money tree,
Yet milks its sap, for special friends.
You loved authoritarian ways,
You sang the Red Flag, gave high praise
To those who wished to end the days
Of freedom lovers grown irate
At freedom squashing, crushing state.
So here’s a chance to bow before
Officialdom, which you adore.