On the red box of Filter Jugoslavija
Produced by the Prilep tobacco factory
The new letters
”Oriental”
Shine where “Yugoslavia”
Once used to be
And how can you now explain to brothers
Who hone hawthorn stakes
Driving them all the way from Potkoren
To Gevgelia into her dead soil
That you can no longer approach a kiosk
And ask for Yugoslavia and matches
And that nowhere
I mean nowhere
Can you sell
That ancient joke
So may they leave her ashes alone
Because Yugoslavia
Can no longer go
Anywhere
Can go nowhere
Not even up
In smoke