Poem:  Red Stains

Those red stains on your fingers Yan,

is it paint or fruit or blood?

There’s ranks of Johns who’d lend a hand

But they are too sharp to understand

What can’t be understood.

Those red stains on your fingers Yan,

your nails are cracked and brown.

I’m a brickie myself, roundabout,

But you’d never guess from those down for Out

Polacks built this town.

Those red stains on your fingers Yan,

Stop clinging to the wall!

Leavers’ lies’ll drown your cries.

Freedom lives and free thought dies,

and though you’re mired in gore, stand tall.

Those red stains on your fingers Yan,

shade the pulsing counter’s clip.

Safe in Kaśka’s kindred hands - 

Thank us she trekked from distant lands - 

So you’ll sure survive your trip.

Those red stains on your fingers Yan -

formaldehyde’s set in.

The worthlessness of saving face -

Preserve our minor master race. 

That ain't lost on those let in.