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Poem	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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