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The refugee with good manners (a poem)

June 2, 2007

My parents taught me

such good manners:

I always sleep with a tuxedo;

bow to women in dreams,

dance wonderful waltzes

and emphatically agree

with everything you say.

Such good manners

my parents taught me

that I even thanked my executioner

for chopping my head off:

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

I said sounding like a broken record

head rolling for days.

At the Russian border

someone had pity on me

and stopped my head from rolling

with his foot.

The person asked if I was a refugee

or some kind of a foreigner

but all I could say was thank you!

thank you! thank you!..

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