By Vladimir Mayakovsky
The poem about the soviet passport
As a wolf I'd like to gnaw out the bureaucracy -
There's no any respect to mandates.
And let the other paper goes to hell once...
But this one...
Along the compartments and staterooms of car
There's moving a corteous official.
All give their passports, and also I
Am giving my little book, red-skinned.
To one passport - there's the smile on his face,
To others - the careless treatment.
With great esteem the passports of England he takes,
With the double-bed lions on a cover ...