I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy. For mandates my respect's but the slightest. To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper. But this ... Down the long front of coupés and cabins File the officials politely. They gather up passports and I give in My own vermilion booklet. For one kind of passport - smiling lips part For others - an attitude scornful. They take with respect, for instance, the passport From a sleeping-car English Lionel. The good fellows eyes almost slip like pips when, bowing as low as men can, they take, as if they were taking a tip, the passport from an American. At the Polish, they dolefully blink and wheeze in dumb police elephantism - where are they from, and what are these geographical novelties? And without a turn of their cabbage heads, their feelings hidden in lower regions, they take without blinking, the passports from Swedes and various old Norwegians. Then sudden as if their mouths were aquake those gentlemen almost whine Those very official gentlemen take that red-skinned passport of mine. Take- like a bomb take - like a hedgehog, like a razor double-edge stropped, take - like a rattlesnake huge and long with at least 20 fangs poison-tipped. The porter's eyes give a significant flick (I'll carry your baggage for nix, mon ami...) The gendarmes enquiringly look at the tec, the tec, - at the gendarmerie. With what delight that gendarme caste would have me strung-up and whipped raw because I hold in my hands hammered-fast sickle-clasped my red Soviet passport. I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy. For mandates my respect's but the slightest. To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper, But this ... I pull out of my wide trouser-pockets duplicate of a priceless cargo. You now: read this and envy, I'm a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Union!