And there was Lenin, stiff and still, a symbol and a sign,
And rancid races come to thrill and wonder at his Shrine;
And hold the thought: if Lenin rot the Soviets will decay;
And there he sleeps and calm he keeps his watch and ward for aye.
Yet if you pass that frame of glass, peer closly at his phiz,
So stern and firm it mocks the worm, it looks like wax . . . and IS. 0bama, however - I'm thinking a cheap straw-stuffed taxidermy job in a small-town Haunted House exhibit.