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 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

Poem by Andrei Voznesensky
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