Baku and the Swedish cook
It sounds impossible, but 72 years ago, I was
a galley-boy on an old tank ship loading
oil for Iceland, a country with watery beer
Baku, I remember the long avenue, empty
of people and poorly lit.
The cook and I had gone ashore, and we were
the only one who dared me, because I had
not been brainwashed, and the cook who
was Swedish, Stige Hellander, his name, and
a communist
There was a party somewhere near the men
Who wore a double-breasted suit to grow in
and padded shoulder, making them look odd
Oh, yes, they were party functionaries
Stige, the cook, enjoyed himself with free *****.
They put it in a corner with a bottle of milk
and bars of chocolate, until it was time to go
back onboard, Stige, the cook, sang rude songs
Now, seventy-two years later, I learn that Baku
is not in Russia
