Listen and make your own on Suno.
He holds a stick of ordinary wood,
A common thing, from some forgotten chore.
His comrade, Lazar, where the lamplight stood,
Has finished speaking of the iron ore.
The Boss looks down, a thought begins to bloom,
A playful, private, and a potent seed.
He breaks the silence of the gathering gloom.
"Lazar," he says, "perform a simple deed."
"Fetch me the stick." The words hang in the air.
The great Commissar, with his bull-like frame,
Pauses a beat, then answers with a stare
That kindles to a most peculiar flame.
He crawls, a hound upon a scent intent,
And takes the stick not in his hand, but jaw.
The taste of earth, a humble sacrament.
He brings it back, without a single flaw.
He drops the prize upon the booted toe,
And looks for praise with eyes both dark and bright.
A soft chuckle, a murmur, soft and low,
"Good dog," the Master says into the night.
Again it flies, into the thorny bed,
Where roses clutch with fingers sharp and mean.
He crawls through them, with lowered, patient head,
A lesson in the places truth is seen.
He returns, torn, a scratch upon his hand,
And lays the stick, with leaves and blood, just so.
The Boss himself takes up the bloody brand,
And binds the wound, his touch firm and slow.
"Good hound," he says, "you do not feel the thorn,
When you are on the scent I set for you."
And in those words, a new creation's born,
And all the world reduces to this view.
His hand comes down, not as a friend's might do,
But as a master pets a favoured beast.
His fingers scratch the dark and balding brow,
And from all struggle, give a sweet release.
For in the fetch, the petting, and the praise,
A language forms that intrigue obscures.
Beyond the terror of the coming days,
Beyond the purges and the great trials' lures,
Lies this: the master's tender hand.
A man who is a dog, and glad to be,
The absolute rulers of a bleeding land,
Who find their solace in simplicity.
The good dog, Lazar, faithful to the end,
The Master, Stalin, scratching at his head.
A perfect and a terrible thing, my friend,
To be a living god's best friend, well-fed.
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