Shooting them is little, Is too little, is nothing! Poison carrion, profligates, Imperialist vermin, Who soil our proud Socialist bullets! All in double rhymes. There were a hundred lines of it. At four rubles a line, it came to a skilled workman’s wages for a month, a ditchdigger’s for three months. The author of it, dressed in a sport suit made of good brown German cloth, displayed a rubicund face in editorial offices.
