The Russian tart glitters in catwalk chic,
A spit of vitriol in a silver flask,
Hair like a spray-gun or a wind-swept ferment,
Swagger her easy-money attribute.
Why need the Russian mob fly in their talent?
Less vulgar those who came by sleeping-car,
Bringing false countess, raffish governess
To aspic yesterday. They dreaded reds,
And lost their sweatshops on the Viborg side.
Their manor houses burned above their heads.
Phlegmatic waiters now for thug and doxy
Pop champagne. Meanwhile these ill-at-ease
Come-latelies grope for cash and naked knees,
Swilling like cart-horse or Slav politician,
Roaring like men whose dreams are a disease.