The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Juniper berries bloom in the heat. My heart!
'Bottoms up, Comrade.' The nicotine-stained
fingers of our latest defector shake as they
reach for Sholokhov's Lenin--the veranda is
littered with copies--no, commies, the ones
in comics like 'Battle Action' or 'Sgt Fury
& His Howling Commandos'. Does form follow
function? Well, after lunch we hear a speech.
It's Stephen Fitzgerald back from 'Red' China.
Then, you hear a postie whistle. I hear without
understanding, two members of Wolverhampton
Wanderers pissed out of their brains, trying
to talk Russian. Try reading your telegram--
'mes vacances sont finies:Stalin'. But we don't
speak French or play soccer in Australia, our
vocabulary and games are lazier by far. Back
in the USSR, we don't know how lucky we are.
Stalin's Holidays : John Forbes 1991
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