There once was a guy named Marx
Who thought the bourgeosie were a bunch of old farts
He proposed a solution
Socialist revolution!
But when will it happen? Don't ask!

Russia's first ****** was Lenin
His blueprint for Russia was telling
Although his hairline receded
He finally succeded!
By stopping those Whites from rebelling

Oh what a poor sap was Engels
He built communism from its fundamentals
He helped write the book
Yet we gave him the hook
Marx, the chorus, and he, the instrumental

‘Twas but a rare, snowy day in Paris,
a January day, as all the lights of the city
rested, as dancers of the Moulin Rouge
fixed their make up during the intermission

And in the graveyard of Père Lachaise
there stood a solitary figure of an old man,
his hands gathered together politely,
in front, clenching on to a tattered flat cap

The man stood in front of a grey wall,
“a tomb without a cross or chapel,
or golden lilies, or sky-blue church windows,”
but with an equally lonesome little plaque
that read, ‘Aux mort de la commune,
21 28 Mai 1871’

He lit a cigarette, from which he took just one puff,
stuck it upside-down on a patch of dirt,
then notwithstanding the thunderstorm
of camera flashes from Japanese tourists,
he started to sing, with a hoarse yet firm voice,
“Debout, les damnés de la terre,
Debout, les forçats de la faim…”

As the wrinkle on his forehead began to stretch,
the dusty particles of ice piled higher and higher
on neighboring graves commemorating
French members of the International Brigades
and Spanish maquis of the French Resistance
-apparently the 3,400 meters height of Pyrenees
was merely a backyard *****
for ideas and fates to tread over barefooted-

His song was a ballad of unrequited passion;
when he got to the chorus about some final struggle
and the unity of human race in a silly hymn,
a song that was never played on a radio,
for which no cool kid would ever
spend $0.99 on iTunes store,
his voice started cracking in amorous choke

The old man was a lifetime lover
in the truest spirit of a Frenchman,
spent all his life trying to charm a girl named Emma Ries,
and whenever he dreamed of holding
the eloquently bruised hands of that sixteen years old seamstress,
his eyes swelled of nostalgic heart,

And he used to cry joyfully,
dropping tears of bullets back in the days,
whether by the guillotine in Place de la Concorde,
behind the barricades of Belleville amidst the cannonballs,
******* in front of the Gestapo firing squads,
or under the truncheons of gendarme in Quartier Latin

As the expired old ******* moaned wet dreams,
hallucinogic delusions of his bygone youth, however,
the chilly, soggy winter of 20th arrodissement piled on,
the ashen slums of Ménilmontant depressingly ugly as always
with brownish-grey molten snow spattered all over
the streets trotted by drug dealers and wife beaters,
and neither the fiery oratory of Maurice Thorez
nor the sanguine grenade of Colonel Fabien
was around to arson the frost into the proletarian spring

In the same winter that the old man sang
the first, only, and last lovesong of his life,
it had been more than two decades already
since the Berlin Wall had tumbled down
and the ruling parties in Greece and Spain,
both socialists,
had just driven 500,000 workers out of their jobs

-J.P. Proudhon, Marx and Engels, Jean Jaures, V.I. Lenin,
Leon Trotsky, Antonio Gramsci, Leon Blum, Abbie Hoffman-
by the time the old man muttered an old pop-song nobody cared for,
all of those names were as relevant as some Medieval knights,
characters from an obscure chronicle centuries ago,
who died by charging horseback into windmills,
mistaking them for giants that held whom they thought as
a princess of an ugly peasant woman,

Eventually, right before his voice cracked
into an embarrassing fuddle of choked-up tears,
impressive for a seventy something years old,
the man finished the song from his memory,
all the way up to the sixth stanza;
yet the curvaceously splintered palm of a seamstress,
it was still so far away from his hands that’s been pleading
since 1871 for that glorious *******
which once stood so proudly in the face of a Czernowitz magistrate

When the cigarette he stuck upside down on the dirt
burned all the way down, he reached into his coat,
took out a rose, laid it softly, like his own infant child,
in front of the plaque which golden inscriptions
turned grey from unwashed grimes of ages
and as the old fool walked away,
his back turned away from the solemn wall,
there was but one little patch of dirt in the whole of Paris
uncovered by snow, still hoping for the spring to come.

Hegel’s Hero in Dream
Hegel’s Hero appeared with video of heroes
To teach me Ideas and dialectics in society;
I saw there, Lions and Foxes of Machiavelli
Fighting , growling , springing  from bushes.
Aimless Dame Fortune moves  in  history past
Politics of India, snowy, foggy, and shadowy!
Shivering men squat passive keeping “ID card”
As Greek slaves, before the Democratic Lords.
General Will ,as Rousseau says ,forms society,
Nation, Governments based on Ideas extant.
Lords, and the wealthy ruled rudely the ruled
In the past, as history moved  as cruelly as fast.
God’s own Universe sans universal concept
On Peace; builds walls around each groups.
Religions fail to link the parted and parched
People who worship vicious Cain and Mammon .
Marx, Engels , and Mao came with the legions  
Stumbled, humbled and stifled by the Mammons.
Buddha, Christ and the Prophet Mohammad
Told of Love, Grace, Patience and of Pardon
My Lord, why, we fail to wipe tears and fears?
“Sambhavami  yuge yuge” says hazy, Hegel  fades.
parithranaya  sadhunam/ vinasaya cha dushkritham/
dharmmasamsthapanardhaya/sambhavami yuge yuge.
When in India can we expect such a Hero:Kalki,in Kali?
To be trapped, jailed as terrorist protestant, really!

About an hour later she slipped
Yuri Andropov into the conversation:
“I have to drop off a blouse at the dry cleaners.”
Suddenly it was May Day &
I’m back in Red Square,
Dwarfed beneath larger than life
Lenin, Engels & Marx mug shots.
Inter-continental ballistic lorry loads
Roll past the reviewing stand, while
Geezer Reds in Ushanka fur hats,
****** on Stoli, reeking of borscht,
Chain-smoke cheap Soviet Belomors.
I share these thoughts, handing
Mrs. Khrushchev the car keys.
Having cowered herself in terror,
Having ducked & covered many
Burial promises & shoe-pound threats,
She gives me a tired babushka smirk.
We are conjugal Cold Warriors,
Both weary now, creeping up on 70,
Skirmishes & brinksmanship behind us.
Tolerant of each other at last;
Lukewarm détente between us.

The magnificent seven
Ring, ring, it's 7:00 A.M.
Move yourself to go again
Cold water in the face
Brings you back to this awful place
Knuckle merchants and your bankers too
Must get up and learn those rules
Weather man and the crazy chief
One says sun and one says sleet
A.M., the F.M. the P.M. too
Churnin' out that boogaloo
Gets you up and it gets you out
But how long can you keep it up?
Gimme Honda, gimme Sony
So cheap and real phony
Hong Kong dollar, Indian cents
English pounds and Eskimo pence
You lot, what?
Don't stop, give it all you got
You lot, what?
Don't stop, yeah
You lot, what?
Don't stop, give it all you got
You lot, what?
Don't stop, yeah
Working for a rise, better my station
Take my baby to sophistication
Seen the ads, she thinks it's nice
Better work hard, I seen the price
Never mind that it's time for the bus
We got to work and you're one of us
Clocks go slow in a place of work
Minutes drag and the hours ****
Yeah, wave bye, bye
(When can I tell 'em what I do?)
(In a second, ma-an, alright Chuck)
Wave bub-bub-bub-bye to the boss
It's our profit, it's his loss
But anyway the lunch bells ring
Take one hour, do your thang
Cheeesboiger
What do we have for entertainment?
Cops kickin' gypsies on the pavement
Now the news has snapped to attention
Lunar landing of the dentist convention
Italian mobster shoots a lobster
Seafood restaurant gets out of hand
A car in the fridge, a fridge in the car
Like cowboys do in TV land
You lot, what?
Don't stop, give it all you got
You lot, what?
Don't stop, huh
You lot, what?
Don't stop, give it all you got, yeah
You lot, what?
Don't stop
So get back to work and sweat some more
The sun will sink and we'll get out the door
It's no good for man to work in cages
Hit the town, he drinks his wages
You're frettin', you're sweatin'
But did you notice, you ain't gettin'
You're frettin', you're sweatin'
But did you notice, not gettin' anywhere
Don't you ever stop, a long enough to start
Take your car outta that gear
Don't you ever stop, long enough to start
Get your car outta that gear
Karlo Marx and Frederick Engels
Came to the checkout at the seven on eleven
Marx was skint but he had sense
Engels lent him the necessary pence
What have we got? Yeah, ooh
What have we got? Yeah, ooh
What have we got? Magnificence
What have we got?
Luther King and Mahatma Gandhi
Went to the park to check on the game
But they was murdered by the other team
Who went on to win fifty-nil
You can be true, you can be false
You'll be given the same reward
Socrates and Milhous Nixon
Both went the same way through the kitchen
Plato the Greek or Rin Tin Tin
Who's more famous to the billion millions?
News flash, 'Vacuum cleaner ***** up budgie'
Ooh, bye-bye, bub-bye

Love is a whole lot of ******* labor
With **** ******* wages and worse benefits
False self consciousness
An identity connected to who you do
Or who you want to do
And how much you do it
I'd like to form a union
But it'd take too much effort
I'll just use my Kulak on myself in the country side
It's just as good as anything else
Engels did it too, probably a lot

A Jim-Davies-esque poster cartoon of my guts
on display at the Smithsonian as though
I could pretend to be any other poet
with my insides outstretched because
I cannot feel without cohesion or medication or
either, or—
it's lost upon synchronization.

I hear some wormy **** gobbling
(insanely might I add)
about Marx or Engels or one or both twice over.
I'm too busy trying to impress myself with this
Jenga block tower of carefully balanced fibs to notice
why you cry when the sun sleeps.
I don't exactly care so much as it intrigues me.
Another feeling stimulating what's lost.
I imagine sunshine & weep.

Engels extolled the height of manners
still I would've liked  him to trans Europe permanently
He was such a dampener scribbling
midnight fury
on the oxide of causation
still he starched his collar,
not realising he persists Karl
to upstage Darwin on Capitals demise

-->In the past

Martin Luther King Jr
Antonio Gramsci
Were waging a fight
For the observance of
Their likes' right,
Also like Frederik Engels
Crossing-floor or
Transcending class
There were some
Who were struggling
On the side of
The oppressed mass.

Making
Proletariat internationalism
Their intent
The likes of Che Guevara
** Chi Minh ,Castro
Proved freedom fighters
Beyond the perimeter
Of their continent.

A selfless sacrifice
Was what
They were expecting
As a price.

Like Mandela's stance
"Lick not your wound"
Was what  was deemed
Sound.

Unity, genuine democracy and
Freedom was the catch word
All in one tied
By a political cord.

-->  Currently

So called politicians' intention
Is towards themselves
Drawing attention.

Fabricating a political tension
Deconstruction history
And dishing out
A scare-tactic fiction
They bring into play a given
Ethnic or religious
Group's ,once up on a time,
Suffered lance,
Their hidden selfish agenda
To advance,
Rallying the mob truth
And fiction that
Fails to balance.
Moreover for fishing
In troubled water
A hotbed they give a chance.
Optimizing own benefit
Is their price.

Self-seeking,
Triggering ethnic-conflict
Many societal-harm they inflict.

They adore blood
To flow like a flood.

Disintegration and hate speech
Is what they preach.
"Chase that religious group
And that race!"
Is what
They expect  credulous
Followers to embrace.

Machiavelli is their
Political bible
To translate into action
They make a dabble.

Tja, ik probeer wel nederlands te schrijven,
God weet dat ik het niet kan.
Ik ga niet nog een ******* boek lezen,
Dus we maken er het beste van.

Eerst moet je bedenken wat je überhaupt gaat schrijven.
Geen idee, niet dat ik ooit goeie ideeën heb.
Dus dan gaan we maar weer rijmen,
Alsof het van een rijmwebsite komt, het is haast "nep"

Als je dan eindelijk inspiratie hebt,
*** ga je het dan verwoorden?
Nederlands is gewoon een kuttaal.
Rens, ik ga je op een dag echt nog vermoorden (misschien)

En nu is het klaar met die kutrijmpjes,
Het werkt alleen maar in het Engels.
Ik wilde een rijmwoord bedenken,
Het eerste dat in me opkwam was "soepstengels"

Help lol

Jackie Engels' goal is free.
Nigey avoids wines that are
similar to young women and
young people who are still
alive, having two daughters,
women and family museums,
serving a creative card to
William. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Posted:
Posted by: Posted: Posted by:
Time !!!!! Tour to Japan, Japan,
Japan Listen to the best ******'s
Christmas card in Turkey.
The girl, the daughter, the daughter,
the girl, on the way to the girl
and the fingers to create a tattoo model,
helping to build the city center,                     the center of the security center,
Åšikseni gel. Green, green, pop, pop,
pop, pop, black, gold, red, blue, Italy,
Greece, Germany, Greece, Latin, gold
or state government Your page: Black,
Black, Blue, Two, Latin, Venetian,
King Neki and 9 kings must be opened first.
The North Korean German destroyed
the White, white and white church, such as women and gold, black and blue,
red, gold, German, Latin and Greek.
For example, with King King.
White or white, white and good examples.
Women are ideas, kings are gods,
Greek, Latin, black, gold, blue,                                           and hot in English.
Irene Mary Gregory, Algeria,
Jamie Greeff, United Arab Emirates,
Virginia Girls, Forests, Forests,
Forests and Forests Single Singles
Midas Summer School Awarded
and Children for Children, Pastors
and LILO's New Children Men's
Hospitals can start and flood with girls.
Pop, Pop, Country, Black, Gold, Red,
Blue, Italy, Greece, Germany, Greek,
Latin and Gold or Goa, your government.

Two, Two, Green,                                                                        Black, Greek,
Latin, Venetian,                                                                       King Neki and 9
kings must be opened first.
Forest, Forest, Forest, Forest,
Forest, Forest, Forest, Forest,
Forest, Forest, Forest, Forest,
Forest, Forest, Forest, Italian,
Greek, Latin, royal line C.