The Russian Empire, as you see, Is governed by an Autocrat, A sort of human target he For anarchists to practise at; And much relieved most people are Not to be lodging with the Czar.
The Russian lets his whiskers grow, Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and Imbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut'; A habit which (I understand) Enables him with ease to tell His name, which nobody could spell.
The climate here is cold, with snow, And you go driving in a sleigh, With bells and all the rest, you know, Just like a Henry Irving play; While, all around you, glare the eyes Of secret officers and spies!
The Russian prisons have no drains, No windows or such things as that; You have no playthings there but chains, And no companion but a rat; When once behind the dungeon door, Your friends don't see you any more.
I further could enlarge, 'tis true, But fear my trembling pen confines; I have no wish to travel to Siberia and work the mines. (In Russia you must write with care, Or the police will take you there.)
_MORAL_
If you hold morbid views about A monarch's premature decease, You only need a -- Hi! Look out! Here comes an agent of police! (In future my address will be 'Siberia, Cell 63. ')
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