RUBBER SOULS

 I hate you, rubber souls, you seem 
 to stretch to fit any regime.
 

 They'll give a yawning smile, stretched wide, 
 and, like an octopus, they'll draw you tight.
 

 A rubber man is an elusive rogue: 
 a fist gets sucked into the bog.
 

 The rubber editor is scared of script, 
 the author is bogged down in it.
 

 A rubber office I used to know 
 where "yes" was stretched to courteous "no".
 
 I pity you, elastic crank, 
 as if erased, your past is blank.
 

 You have erased many a passion, many a thought, 
 but you were happy and excited, were you not?.
.
.
 

 Above the waist you are a cowardly man, 
 an ace of spade, and an unlucky one.
.
.
 

© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation

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