Young Stalin
A time of revolution...
of a poet was at hand.
Of turbulence and triumph,
independent in a land.
On Golovinsky Prospect
to the main street of Tiflis.
Exploits of Djugashvili...
Tilipuchui Tavern was a fleese.
European fashions, Pushkin gardens,
grand hotels.
Often singing melodies,
he claimed poetry for his swells.
A wandering existence of a
Bolshevik to be.
The perfect crime was hidden...
as a mask, a robbery!
A poet was becoming...
a romantic in his life.
With a faith devoted to a struggle...
storm and strife!
Yet he never wavered,
an existence he believed,
that he alone was destined...
trial and suffering he'd achieve.
Liberation-freedom,
and the forces of a chain.
Death and combat were essential
for a lasting thing to gain.
The only lasting thing,
torn with conflict on the brink,
that would mark a struggle...
for a cause within a link.
There was constant trouble
and a lasting reprimand.
Return to seminary would not happen,
there again.
Yet he chose philosophy,
he created from the start.
A prisoner and in exile,
revolution was his art!
A new world he would order
from Baku to Petrograd.
Upon the Russian stage he'd step,
perhaps he had gone mad!
But he would bear a will...
that remained for all his days...
forever with a shadow,
contradiction in a haze.
Chernyshevsky, Dostoevsky,
and the devils were his due...
A russian revolution
was the making of a Coup!
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