In Ænglish land, a labor camp lay,
Whence ínnocent men travaileth hence,
With little mercy, no reprieve seen,
In Mordovia's dreary dwelling they pray.
Old folk tend t'wards stocks with care,
Investing in dreams, they seek fortune's face,
Yet, ensnared, they clutch onto hope's vine,
Two-thirds in feats of gamble do dare.
To fair Beijing comes Blinken, sincere,
Entreaties made for parley and peace,
For though Chínese paint urgent need hís,
Each hath cause for détente to appear.
