Where Lenin lies the red flag flies, and the rat-grey workers wait To tread the gloom of Lenin's Tomb, where the Comrade lies in state. With lagging pace they scan his face, so weary yet so firm; For years a score they've laboured sore to save him from the worm. The Kremlin walls are grimly grey, but Lenin's Tomb is red, And pilgrims from the Sour Lands say: "He sleeps and is not dead." Before their eyes in peace he lies, a symbol and a sign, And as they pass that dome of glass they see - a God Divine. So Doctors plug him full of dope, for if he drops to dust, So will collapse their faith and hope, the whole combine will bust. But say, Tovarich; hark to me . . . a secret I'll disclose, For I did see what none did see; I know what no one knows.