The Mother Of All Parades Poem by Anatoly Kudryavitsky

As the empire exhales the dust of its former glory, you merge into a vast mutual body with multiple pebble heads. Cigarette smoke searches pockets and lungs.
If you doze off now, you'll see skeletons marching past through Red Square and rockets watching them closely from the rostra.
When you open your eyes again, festivities will go on. You'll still have a chance to observe the huge inflated faces rising into the air.